


Speak of Other Matters

by MrsHamill



Series: Grandmother Raven: The Path of a Shaman [12]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Romance, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-10
Updated: 2001-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which many things happen; people live, love, fight, eat, grow old and die; spirit guides are summoned and dismissed; and one small ferret drives Jim and Blair nuts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak of Other Matters

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank yous on this must go to Fox and Christi, of course, for managing to keep from killing me and having massive amounts of patience with me as I wrote the damn thing; to hubby Mark for his own patience while I fretted over it; to Tia who gave me invaluable advice on the pacing; to Aouda and Fox (again!) and the lovely ladies at sen betas, who helped beta it down to size. Any mistakes left over are all mine, trust me. THERE ARE SPOILER WARNINGS AT THE VERY END OF THE FIC FOR THOSE WHO NEED THEM.
> 
> This is the LAST Grandmother Raven story, there will be no others.

_All around me darkness gathers,_  
_Faded is the sun that shone;_  
_We must speak of other matters:_

_You can be me when I'm gone._

Neil Gaiman, _The Sandman_

* * *

"Detective Sandburg?"

Jim looked up from his computer monitor long enough to see Rafe direct the courier, then turned his attention back to the screen.

"Detective Sandburg? It's from the D.A.'s office, sir. Sign here."

Not really paying attention to his report, Jim listened while his partner signed for the large, flat envelope and opened it, pulling a sheaf of papers out. At Blair's pleased hum, Jim cleared his throat lightly and said, "Whatcha got there, Junior?"

Blair looked up and smiled. "My deposition on the Janowicz case. Looks like we're going to trial next week."

Jim smiled fondly as he leaned back in his chair. "Ah, your very first case. How quickly they grow up..."

It had taken some shuffling, but now Blair and Jim sat face-to-face in the back of the bullpen -- the better to throw insults and more damaging things at each other without involving the rest of the crew. Like now: Blair threw a binder clip at him, grinning at his words. "You're just jealous 'cause you weren't primary. That case was mine, all mine. A good clean bust, due to good, hard detective work."

"Hardly," Jim snorted, lobbing the binder clip back. "More like excellent detective work."

"Awww... you say the nicest things, Ellison," Blair laughed. He shoved his glasses back up onto his nose and bent over the papers.

Surprising how many changes he'd gotten used to in less than a year, Jim reflected. Looking down, he grinned at the picture next to his computer: Blair in his ("One and only time, man, one and only time!") dress blues; his mouth open as if giving the photographer instructions; his wild hair barely contained by the cap perched on his head. Two days after that picture, he had shown up in the bullpen with most of the mop cut off. It just reached his collar now, and that's where he kept it. That was one change, and it was a big one; but Jim had discovered he actually liked Blair's shorter hair. It made him look a bit older, a bit more dangerous, a bit sexier.

Having Blair move upstairs with Jim was another big change -- maybe the biggest of all. But it was also one of the easiest -- Detective Sandburg had been much harder to reconcile in Jim's mind. He was used to being able to tell Blair to stay down, to stay back -- he couldn't do that any more. Now, Blair protected him as much as vice versa.

Blair's phone rang and Jim turned his eyes back to the report on his monitor, still lost in his thoughts. Being brutally honest with himself -- a painful undertaking at its best -- Jim knew that Sandburg had always protected Ellison, just not quite as overtly as Jim protected Blair. (The memory of the press conference rose before him, making him wince internally.) That Blair was now truly his equal partner had been a hard lesson for Jim to learn, but it was one Blair was intent on teaching him. Not that Jim was about to make it easy for him...

"Hey, squawgirl! How are you?" Blair had a more relaxed air about him now, and that was good. His behavior was more mature, calmer, and while Jim sometimes missed the bouncy neo-hippy-witchdoctor-punk-kid, he had to admit that this Blair was -- well, less stressful to be around. Then again, it could be the sex. Jim grinned to himself as he thought about that.

"Oh, man, Violet, I don't know. You know how hard it is to figure our schedule." The binder clip sailed back across the desks to smack into Jim's shoulder, and he looked up. Blair indicated the phone and pointed to him... oh... yeah, he could listen in if Blair wanted him to.

"Blaaaaaair... please. I've worked so hard on this dance. Daryl's a part of it too... I'm sure Captain Banks would give you two the night off for it. Couldn't you ask?" Violet's voice sounded tired, strung out, raspy.

"Well, I can ask, Violet, but you know, if there's an emergency, we have to be there. And I'm afraid that chaperoning for a high school dance just isn't very high on the Chief of Police's calendar."

Chaperoning? What the hell?

"I know, I know," Violet was protesting, "but if you guys can't do it, then I might have to cancel the whole thing. And my committee has really, really worked hard. All you'd have to do is stand around and look menacing, so that anyone with any ideas about alcohol would think twice. Honest."

Blair laughed and rolled his eyes. "Look, I'll talk to Jim and Simon, and see what we can do, okay? No promises."

"Oh, thank you, thank you... I love you, Blair! Call me back when you know, okay?"

"Okay, kid. I'll give you a call tonight. Bye."

"Chaperoning, Chief?" Jim raised his eyebrows, tossed the clip back, and folded his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, yeah." Blair easily caught the binder clip. "Violet heads the entertainment committee over at the Center. They've got this dance all planned out for the seniors at Northern and Carson -- you know, the two schools local to the Center -- but she couldn't get enough adults to chaperone. She's concerned because some of the kids are real troublemakers and would want to bring alcohol or worse... and she knows how much trouble she'd get into for that."

"Heh. No kidding," Jim agreed, grinning. He began to tick trouble off on his fingers: "First from the cops, then from the Center, then from _us_..."

"And then worst of all, from Grandmother." They shared a little shiver at that thought. "She'd had a couple of others give her tentative okays, but they had to back out. She's really in a bind. What do you think?"

"Well..." Jim leaned back and thought. A high school dance? But they did owe Violet a lot, and she was a good kid. Not to mention Daryl. "When is it?"

"Friday."

Jim made a face and nodded. "I guess it couldn't hurt to ask. And having both Violet and Daryl owe us one is pretty good incentive."

"You're evil, Ellison," Blair laughed.

* * *

  
Turned out that Daryl had worked on Simon before Jim or Blair ever got a chance to bring it up, and Simon was amenable to them having the night off to chaperone. Violet was beside herself with joy that they could do it, and asked them to come by early, promising to feed them before the party started.  
  
They were pleasantly surprised by the Cascade Native American Resource Center when they arrived. Violet and her committee _had_ worked hard, and it showed. Tiny white lights were strung all over the atrium and its artificial stream, leading to the center's enormous multi-purpose room where the dance itself was to take place. A live band -- local, but still live -- was warming up at one end, near the sound system and the turntables to be used on their breaks. The room was dim and festive, with disco-balls and multi-colored lighting shining off the streamers and balloons everywhere.  
  
Jim and Blair followed the smell of pizza and the giggles of high-schoolers back to the far end of the long room, where a small antechamber was crowded with half a dozen kids and a couple of adults. Daryl -- who, to no one's surprise, was part of the committee Violet headed -- saw them at the door and waved them in. "Hey, Jim, Blair! Come on in and get some pizza."  
  
There were at least ten boxes of pizza -- the good stuff, Jim noticed immediately -- stacked precariously on chairs and TV trays, and various brands of soda in coolers. They helped themselves to pizza and soda, nodding to the others present as Daryl rattled off introductions. "Where's Violet?" Blair asked, before taking a huge bite of pizza.  
  
"Getting her last minute marching orders from Mrs. Burke," Daryl replied, rolling his eyes. Mrs. Regina Burke ran the Center and was a tough stickler for the rules. Violet's status as Grandmother Raven's student meant absolutely nothing to the woman; everyone within her demesne had to follow the rules or suffer the consequences.  
  
"The room looks great, Daryl," Jim said sincerely, searching for a slice of pizza without pepperoni.  
  
"You think?" A couple of the other kids high-fived Daryl as he replied and they all looked pleased at Jim's words. "I just hope everyone shows," Daryl said, sotto voce to Jim and Blair.  
  
"You afraid you won't get a crowd?" Blair asked him softly.  
  
"You can never tell, Blair," he sighed. "Some of the kids think that the only way to have fun is to drink, and they won't show if there's no chance of alcohol. And Violet has worked so damn hard on this. I just hope..."  
  
"Jim! Blair!" Violet literally ran into the room, hugged Jim and Blair, then threw herself onto a surprised Daryl's lap. "Feed me, oh great one," she laughed, tossing her sweaty hair over her shoulder, "before I pass out from hunger."  
  
"Violet! Sheesh." Daryl ducked his head, visibly embarrassed at her antics. Unrepentant, Violet stole what was left of his pizza slice. The others in the room laughed and one of them fetched her a can of Coke.  
  
"Are you okay?" Jim asked her, taking note of her flushed, sweaty face and wild eyes, and hearing her racing heart. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, both of which were spotted with sweat and paint stains.  
  
"No," she said honestly around a huge bite of pizza. "I'm about to die of heart failure. But I'll get over it when the first of the kids gets here."  
  
"It's not even seven-thirty, Vio," Daryl said, wrapping one arm tightly around her middle. "The dance doesn't start until eight. You know a lot of kids are going to be fashionably late. We've got time."  
  
"I know, I know," she said, drinking her soda. She put her head on Daryl's shoulder and Jim could smell the threat of tears. She had pushed herself almost to the brink for this dance, and he was suddenly very glad they could be there for her. "I'll be okay." It was rather nice to see Violet as a kid -- well, as an eighteen year-old high school senior -- rather than an apprentice shaman, a forceful young lady becoming ever stronger. Her vulnerability here made Jim feel protective.  
  
"The DJ's here," said a new arrival, popping into the room. Stuffing the last of Daryl's pizza in her mouth, Violet leapt up and ran out to main room. Sharing an exasperated look with Jim and Blair, Daryl got up and followed her.  
  
Despite Violet's fears, by eight-thirty the room was beginning to get crowded. Blair had taken Jim aside as soon as the band started up, and given him his marching orders: "Look, you just stay outside the room, watch the kids coming in and scan them for stuff, I'll stay in here and mingle. There's no way I'm going to let you stay here with all this noise." Jim had smiled, patted Blair on the cheek, and went out to the atrium.  
  
Even standing in the there, out of the room, the noise was deafening. Using the techniques Blair had taught him, Jim dialed down the band but left a piece of himself alert to anything different, anything that sounded off. And he kept smell up, looking for the troublemakers he was certain would show.  
  
He hadn't counted on his own intimidation factor. A group of young, rowdy boys -- aspiring punks, badly dressed and rude -- stopped dead just inside the Center's doors, took one look at Ellison's best scowl, and did an abrupt one-eighty. He debated calling the local patrol on them -- he could smell the alcohol on them even before they opened the doors -- but decided to let it go for the evening. Their hearts had been beating frantically and he wasn't sure they'd survive being pulled over.  
  
Word must have traveled fast, or else Violet and her committee had put the word out about 'police' presence at the party, because there weren't any more real problems after that. There were a few kids who showed up after ten with alcohol on their breath, but Jim let Blair handle them after giving his partner the high sign. Blair had come to excel at youth counseling and, in fact, was sought after at the station for just that reason. The three girls who arrived high -- and smelling so strongly of marijuana that Jim almost felt light-headed around them -- were sequestered and their parents called to pick them up. And, to his surprise, Jim found that he was actually enjoying himself.  
  
The band not only wasn't bad, it was actually quite good. It wasn't grunge, wasn't acid, but was more like _Matchbox 20_ \-- a band Blair had introduced Jim to recently. Jim would never openly acknowledge it to Blair, but he actually liked some of that band's songs, and this local group did a mean cover of them. Jim hung out at the door to the room, doing his own subdued rendition of grooving to the music, and watched the mating dance of the modern high school student with amusement and not a little relief that he wasn't a parent.  
  
"Leave me alone, Dennis." The words, spoken in a controlled fury by Violet, made Jim's head snap around. Frowning, he narrowed in on the location -- a small meeting room that was doubling as a cloak room -- and began making his way there.  
  
"I can't believe you're seeing that... that... nig--"  
  
"Say it and so help me God I'll ram your teeth down your throat, you _st'thek'w_ ," Violet snarled. Jim had never heard her sound so angry.  
  
"He's not one of us, Violet." The other voice -- Dennis? -- was somehow both oily and harsh; it had an odd quality to it that Jim couldn't quite put his finger on.  
  
"So what? Daryl has more smarts, manners, and looks in his little finger than you do in your whole ugly body, and if he's not Salish or Tlingit, what difference does it make? Besides, that's not what's bothering you, and I know it. You are transparent to me in your quest for power."  
  
"You and I were meant to be together, Violet."  
  
"Get bent."  
  
"I'm telling you..."  
  
Intent on the conversation, Jim strode into the room and in a flash, had the situation parsed. Violet, who had changed into a little black dress for the dance, stood near the door, her back to the wall, attempting to shake off the grip of a boy about her age. He was as tall as Daryl, but thicker, and obviously of native blood. In one step, Jim was in his face, lifting him by his collar, and tossing him with casual force away from Violet. The kid stumbled into a table piled high with coats and umbrellas, his face initially panicked, then suffusing with fury.  
  
"Is there a problem here?" Jim asked mildly, turning to Violet and scanning her quickly for injuries.  
  
"No, not any more," Violet said, the relief evident in her face and voice as she looked at Jim. "Now that the cavalry's here. Thanks for helping me take out the trash."  
  
"My pleasure, sweetheart. May I escort you back to the party?" Gallantly, Jim offered her his arm, and laughing with relief, Violet took it.  
  
"This isn't over, girl," Dennis snarled from behind them. Violet tensed, but Jim patted her hand reassuringly.  
  
Half turning, he fixed the young man with an icy stare. "Oh, I think it is, champ. Because if I ever see you threatening one of my friends again, I'll have your ass in jail so fast your head will spin. Do you understand me?"  
  
Not waiting for an answer, he walked out of the room and led Violet back to the dance. She stopped him before going in, however, stretched up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.  
  
"What was that for?" he asked, smiling fondly at her.  
  
"For being my gallant savior," Violet answered, smiling impishly. "If Daryl had known, he would have started a fight, and I didn't want that, not tonight, no matter how much that idiot deserves to have his ass pasted."  
  
"This is an ongoing problem, isn't it? I heard most of that conversation, and I'll bet that's not the first time he's bothered you. Am I right?" Jim looked seriously into her troubled face.  
  
She sighed. "Yeah, he's... well, it's a long story, Jim."  
  
"You and I are going to have a talk about this, young lady," Jim warned her, " _soon_. And you won't be able to put me off on it."  
  
She sighed again, then her smile came back. "Okay, _noeqkikha pus_. It's a date. I've got to get back in there!" With a quick smile, she whirled away into the throng.  
  
Just as suddenly as she disappeared, Blair appeared, looking curiously at Jim. "What's wrong?"  
  
Jim had to grin. It was magic how Blair always seemed to know when something was not right with Jim -- magic, pure and simple. Draping one arm around Blair's shoulders, Jim drew him tightly against his side. "Everything's okay," he said, loudly over the beat of the band. Movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn in time to see Dennis slink out of the other room and head for the front door. "Do you know who that is?" Jim asked Blair, indicating the young man.  
  
Blair frowned. "I've -- seen him around the Center, but no, I don't know who he is offhand. Why?"  
  
"I just caught him threatening Violet in the cloakroom."  
  
"What?!" Blair reared back, anger quickly replacing his shocked look.  
  
Jim nodded slowly. "Apparently, he's been bothering her. I told her that we were going to have to talk about it, and she reluctantly agreed. It doesn't sound good to me, Chief. I've got a bad feeling about it."  
  
"Ten-four, Obi-Wan," Blair said thoughtfully in reply, frowning at the door closing behind the young man in question. Jim could see the wheels turning, and wondered how soon it would be before Blair was on the phone with one of his many contacts about the kid. "Hmm. Tell me all about it later?"  
  
"Sure. When is this shindig due to end, anyway?"  
  
"One a.m., why?"  
  
Jim nuzzled Blair's ear. "Oh, I just wondered if we'd be up to any dirty dancing of our own afterwards."  
  
Blair chuckled and squeezed Jim's middle. "Caveman."  
  
"And don't you forget it, Chief," Jim replied.  
  


* * *

  
By dint of being the most successful team of detectives in Major Crime, Saturdays were usually Jim and Blair's day off. They were nominally on call, but didn't really worry about it. That Saturday, after the dance, they were grateful for the opportunity to sleep in; they had stayed until after two helping the kids with the cleanup.  
  
Around ten Jim finally dragged himself out of slumber, aware of what had conspired to keep him blissfully asleep until that hour: it was dark and rainy, which meant it was cool and pleasant in the loft, and Blair had wrapped around him like a furry octopus, keeping him warm, comfortable and unwilling to move. Jim lay mostly on his back -- and all he could see of Blair was a shock of curly hair peeking out from the comforter -- but he was aware that Blair was lying mostly on top of him, his head resting on Jim's breastbone, one leg between his, and one arm wrapped around his middle. The other arm was wound up between them, and Jim was sure it was probably as asleep as Blair was.  
  
Shifting slightly, Jim pulled the comforter down enough to ensure that Blair could breathe -- not that it had ever been a problem before -- and wrapped his arms around the warm body blanketing his. There was a damp spot on his chest from Blair-drool, his morning erection was trapped between his body and Blair's leg, and Blair's elbow was digging into his side -- and Jim had never been happier.  
  
Nope, the honeymoon had definitely not worn off yet.  
  
Looking up, he saw the rainwater pouring down the sides of the skylight and heard the gentle patter; looked like it was going to be a mostly rainy day. A good day for staying in, doing laundry and cleaning chores, and snuggling. And Blair was a world-class snuggler, as he was proving even in his sleep. Who would have guessed that Jim was a closet cuddler, someone who would want to spend time wrapped around and wrapped in a lover? Certainly he hadn't -- until Blair had staked his claim, Jim would have said he was indifferent to cuddling and snuggling. No longer. Blair regularly accused him of being a cuddle-slut, and Jim regularly denied it, and both knew that Jim was lying.  
  
Blair was shifting, his heartbeat speeding up slightly as he snurfled himself awake. Jim rubbed his back soothingly, helping Blair along to a lovely, gentle wakening, much as he'd had. With a small groan, Blair moved and pulled his arm out from its cramped position; Jim helped him straighten it. Scraping his morning beard on Jim's chest, Blair raised his head and one bleary blue eye opened. "Ugh."  
  
"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," Jim murmured, smiling.  
  
"Timezit?"  
  
"A little after ten. It's raining."  
  
"Duh. Welcome to Cascade. Mmmm. How did my arm fall asleep?"  
  
"You were lying on it." Jim grinned and squeezed Blair gently, encouraging him to scoot up closer to Jim's mouth. "Good morning," he said again, lifting enough to kiss Blair's nose.  
  
"You already said that." Blair smiled sleepily at him and shifted, nudging his knee into Jim's groin, making Jim inhale. "Oh. Yeah. Good morning."  
  
"Yeah, it could be," Jim said, his tone half-mischievous and half-sultry.  
  
"Hmm..." Deliberately, Blair flexed his leg, drawing it slowly up and down Jim's crotch.  
  
"Chief," Jim groaned.  
  
"You know, there's only one thing I like more than waking up with you," Blair whispered.  
  
"What's that?" Jim replied in a murmur, letting his eyelids droop as Blair continued his caress.  
  
"Waking up with you," Blair said. He pushed his leg straight and wrapped his arms tighter around Jim's middle, squeezing and then stretching up for a kiss. "If it's ten, that means I've got to get out of here -- I need to get to the Bursar's Office at the Wash State Annex before noon to get those forms," he said, his voice reluctant.  
  
Jim shook his head sadly. "Why they can't just post those on the 'net I'll never know," he said. "Get some for me too?"  
  
"You sure?" Blair lifted his head and looked at Jim seriously. "You can always go to Rainier for the Crim Jus program, you know."  
  
"No way, Chief, I'm not going anywhere near Rainier as long as that bitch is still chancellor," Jim replied firmly. "Besides, the Master's program at State is good -- you yourself said that. And I kind of like the idea of taking some courses on line."  
  
"What a thought, Jim Ellison as a student," Blair said, chuckling quietly. "I'm not sure my heart can stand the strain."  
  
"I just hope you're doing the right thing... the thing you want to do," Jim said, equally soft. "A Masters in forensic psychology is a far cry from a Ph.D. in anthropology, Blair."  
  
"It's all right, Jim," Blair replied, looking earnestly into Jim's face. "Really it is. It's not like I've changed that much. All I've done is changed from studying man to studying the warrior arts -- which is still part of studying man. It's who I am now, and -- well, I've never been happier with who I am."  
  
Jim stared into Blair's incredible blue eyes for a while, trying to force words out. "I've never been happier, period," he finally managed to say, his voice hesitant and raspy. Blair inhaled and swallowed, hard, at Jim's confession.  
  
"God, I love you," Blair mumbled, putting his head back down on Jim's chest, and Jim smiled. A very good morning indeed.  
  


* * *

  
A muted basketball game was on the tube; there was soft jazz on the stereo and clothes warm from the dryer to fold. Jim sat on the sofa sorting and folding underwear and socks while he pretended to watch the game. Blair sat at the kitchen table mending a shirt that had lost a button -- whether his or Jim's, it didn't matter. He preferred mending to folding, and what with their jobs, there was always mending to do. The rain had continued all morning -- through their errands at school and stores -- and was only slightly lessened now, mid-afternoon.  
  
Blair had just finished with the button when the phone rang. "Better not be Simon," he grumbled lightly, and Jim snickered as he finished folding the last of the socks. He threw the bundled up pair in the laundry basket and carried the whole thing upstairs to put the folded clothes away.  
  
"Hey, Grandmother!" Blair said, with genuine happiness. "Yeah, I was planning on coming by for a bit tonight, why?" He was? First Jim had heard of it. But then again, Blair was nothing if not the master of obfuscation. "Oh, yeah? Well... I don't know. I'll have to check with Jim first." Uh-oh, sounded like something Jim should be listening in on.  
  
"...Not anything special, _memim'en steqeiye'_ , but I haven't seen either of you for a while," Grandmother was saying. "And there's enough pot roast here to feed an army. I would love to have you and Jim come by."  
  
Jim leaned over the railing and said, "Tell her yes."  
  
Blair looked up, his eyes dancing. "You snot, you keep out of my private conversations," he said, trying to sound severe.  
  
But Grandmother was chuckling. "Thank you, Enqueri," she said, as if Jim were also on the phone. "Now you have no excuse, pup. Seven o'clock."  
  
Heaving a theatrical sigh, Blair said, "Why do I even pretend to have free will? See you at seven, Grandmother. Oh, wait, Jim wants to add something."  
  
"Ask her if Violet will be there," Jim said, then turned away from the railing to finish putting clothes away.  
  
"He wants to know if Violet will be there," Blair dutifully relayed.  
  
"Yes, she will," Grandmother replied. "She needs a break from dating for a while. See you tonight, boys."  
  
"What's with you, man?" Blair asked as Jim came back downstairs, the empty laundry basket balanced on his head. He snickered at the sight as he continued. "Besides your usual weirdness, I mean."  
  
"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I just had a sudden desire for Grandmother's pot roast," Jim replied, tossing the empty basket towards the door for the next trip downstairs. It was really nice sometimes to be a Sentinel; you could always tell when the dryer bell went off, no matter how far away it was.  
  
"Not a chance," Blair replied. He handed Jim a needle and tan thread and said, "Here, thread this for me."  
  
And there was the downside to being a Sentinel; everybody asking you to do fine motor work for them all the time. "Actually, I wanted a chance to grill Violet on that boy from last night," Jim conceded, effortlessly threading the needle. "If you'd use a needle with a larger eye you wouldn't have as much trouble, Chief."  
  
"Oh, yeah, you were going to tell me about that," Blair said, taking the threaded needle from him. "And why should I bother when I have you? It's your turn to clean the guns."  
  
"No, it's not, I did it last time." But Jim pulled both their weapons out and went to the drawer where they kept the cleaning supplies.  
  
"No, I did it last time, and I know that, because I pinched my thumb and got a blood blister, see?" Blair held up his hand to show Jim. Jim, passing by on the way to the other side of the kitchen table, grabbed the hand and kissed it.  
  
"There, boo-boo all gone," he said.  
  
Blair snatched his hand back with a mock-grimace. "Up yours, Ellison. Tell me about what happened last night with Violet."  
  
Jim sat with a sigh and unrolled the cleaning supplies kept with the old, greasy towel used to protect the tabletop. Beginning with Blair's, he carefully popped out the clip, checked the chamber, and began the tedious process of disassembling and cleaning. "There isn't much to tell, actually. I heard Violet in the other room and she sounded mad." He paused for a moment, thinking. "No, actually, she sounded pissed. Much more pissed than Violet ever is."  
  
"She's normally pretty calm, all right," Blair agreed, carefully beginning on a rip in Jim's best khaki pants. "You have got to stop putting your keys in your back pocket, man. Keep going."  
  
"Well, anyway, I walked in on them, and this kid had her by the upper arm and cornered against the wall," Jim said, after flipping Blair off casually. "I picked up the kid, tossed him away, and escorted Violet back to the dance. When I asked her, she said -- no, actually, she implied -- that he'd been giving her shit for a while, and she didn't want Daryl to know so he wouldn't start a fight."  
  
"Hmm." Blair stopped sewing for a moment and looked at Jim across the table. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose and he looked much less than thirty years old. "You're not telling me something. What was this kid saying to her?"  
  
Jim rolled his eyes. "Well, first off, it sounded like he was about to call Daryl a nigger."  
  
Blair winced. "Right in front of her? Ow. And he still has his balls?"  
  
Chuckling, Jim said, "Well, she stopped him from saying it outright, so yeah. Then, well, you know, Violet said something odd. She was basically just holding her own -- verbally, anyway -- but then her voice kind of changed. She said something about his quest for power and how it was transparent to her."  
  
"Really?" Blair looked up at that, and his gaze pinned Jim down. "And she sounded odd while she said that?"  
  
"Yeah," Jim said slowly, frowning as he remembered. "Different, somehow. And then when this kid said they were 'made for each other' she told him to get bent."  
  
"That's my girl," Blair chuckled, but his face was thoughtful.  
  


* * *

  
Grandmother Raven made a really wonderful pot roast. Truly fabulous, mouth-watering, extra delicious... Jim imagined he could smell it all the way to the loft, which was why he kept encouraging Blair to hurry so they could get there early. They stopped at a bakery on Prospect that Grandmother liked and picked up one of their gooey death-by-chocolate cakes for dessert, but still managed to get to her house by 6:30.  
  
"You're early," Violet said as she opened the door. Morrie, the golden ferret, was on her shoulder and launched herself at Blair the moment she saw him. Luckily, Blair had anticipated this and had made Jim carry the box with the cake.  
  
"Yeah, well, tell it to the carnivore behind me," Blair replied, kissing her cheek. Jim handed the box to Violet while he took Morrie from Blair to let him take off his jacket. They switched back while Jim took his own coat off and hung both in the closet.  
  
"Violet," Jim called -- she had grabbed the box, inhaled and disappeared -- "that cake is for _all_ of us," he finished, laughing.  
  
"I'm just putting it somewhere safe," her voice floated back to them.  
  
"Yeah, right," Jim and Blair both chuckled and followed their noses back to the kitchen. Morrie was riding high on Blair's shoulder, chirring contentedly at Jim. He reached out his thumb and rubbed the top of her head firmly, and she nibbled him.  
  
Violet was actually in the kitchen, but Grandmother wasn't. If the smell had been mouth-watering out in the foyer, in the kitchen it was almost overpowering. "Where's Grandmother?" Blair asked Violet, smacking her hand when she would have opened the cake box.  
  
"In the basement. I was only going to check to make sure it came through okay!" she protested.  
  
"Yeah, sure you were. And you! Get out of there..." This was directed to Jim, who was peeking into the dutch oven on the stove. "Christ on a crutch. I feel like a babysitter. Grandmother, you'd better get up here before your kitchen is raided."  
  
"Coming, coming," Grandmother's voice came from the stairway. After a moment, she followed her voice and came through the door leading downstairs. She leaned heavily on the hand-carved wooden cane Violet and Daryl had given her for Christmas, and her glasses were hanging from the cord around her neck, where they often were. "Hello, boys. Ah, Jim, you didn't bring that awful death-by-chocolate thing again, did you?"  
  
"Guilty as charged," Jim said lightly. He hugged her gently and kissed her cheek. "How are you doing, you crotchety old woman?" he asked fondly.  
  
"Better now, you big lump," she smiled at him. "Come over here too, Blair. Let an old woman have her fantasies."  
  
The next few minutes were busy as Grandmother decided the pot roast was ready. Violet and Blair set the table -- chatting and teasing each other -- Jim poured drinks and helped serve the food. Morrie got underfoot and made a pest of herself.  
  
In other words, it was startlingly normal, refreshingly like the family neither Jim nor Blair had ever had -- until now -- and Jim sat down with a big, healthy appetite.  
  
Jim had tried to re-create whatever it was that Grandmother put into her pot roast to make it so good, but he never could quite copy it. He used the same ingredients -- the same red potatoes and onions, carrots and mushrooms, even the same cut of beef -- but at Grandmother's house, it always tasted better. He noticed both Blair and Violet eating ravenously -- in between teasing -- and even Morrie going to town, chasing her small bowl of meat and vegetables across the floor. Grandmother, however, was eating sparingly, picking at her food, and he frowned at her.  
  
She clucked at him under her breath. "Don't start, Jim," she murmured. "I'm just not as hungry as I used to be."  
  
"I worry about you," Jim replied softly, smiling gently at her.  
  
"Thank you, Enqueri," she said, but turned away before he could say more. " _K'weit'en_ , you should bring that bread you made to the table for the boys," she said to Violet, who perked up.  
  
"Yeah! I forgot about that, Grandmother," she said, jumping from the table. "I've been experimenting with the bread machine I got for Christmas," she explained, bringing an oddly-shaped loaf to the table. "This is sun-dried tomato-basil bread. Try it."  
  
It was delicious, and between the bread and the other food, Jim soon found himself groaning. Blair also pushed himself away from the table at about the same time, rubbing his swollen stomach. "Oh, God, I ate too much," he moaned.  
  
"Good," Grandmother laughed. "Put some meat on your bones. You're still far too skinny. Don't you ever feed him, Jim?"  
  
"Don't look at me," Jim replied, holding up his hands. He had already surreptitiously loosened his belt beneath the cover of the table. "He hardly ever eats lunch, not that I don't want him too. He's got too much going on."  
  
"Like what, Blair?" Violet asked, leaning her head on her hands and batting her eyelashes at him.  
  
"Stop that, squawgirl," Blair laughed. "No, I don't have _that_ much going on..."  
  
"Yes, you do," Jim said, suddenly realizing that it was true. "You're involved in the VVC unit, Social Services unit, the Mayor's task force on children and crime..."  
  
"What's VVC?" Grandmother asked sharply, interrupting Jim.  
  
"It's the Victims of Violent Crimes liaison office," Jim replied before Blair could. "It was all Sandburg's idea, and of course, the Chief put him in charge."  
  
"Because I know what to do, Jim," Blair protested. "That's why I proposed the damn thing in the first place."  
  
"But you don't have to _run_ it," Jim pointed out reasonably. "You're a full detective, with a full case load, and you've got all these other things going on... now that I think about it, I haven't had lunch with you in a month or more."  
  
Blair rolled his eyes and flapped his hand in the 'talk, talk, talk' motion. "That is patently untrue. I had lunch with you, uh, Wednesday. Yeah."  
  
"Mr. Tube Steak while on the way to a scene doesn't count," Jim said with some asperity. "And now you want to go back to school on top of all that? Chief..."  
  
"Look, Jim," Blair said testily, "if you don't like the thought of me going back to school..."  
  
"I never said that," Jim interrupted. He was aware that the two women at the table were watching them, their heads bouncing back and forth. But he was on a roll now, and wanted to make his point. "I understand that, you know I do, I mean, that's why I want to go get my Masters in Criminal Justice. It's just..."  
  
"Boys." Grandmother looked between the two of them, her glance quelling. "Blair, are you stretching yourself too thin?"  
  
Blair rolled his head, avoided looking directly at her as he sagged in his chair. "Oh, I don't know, Grandmother... There's just so many things pulling at me, tugging me in different directions all the time." He sighed and smiled in apology to Jim. "So many things I need to do."  
  
"That's the nature of your calling, _memim'en steqeiye'_ ," she said gently. "But you can't let it overcome you. Balance, young pup."  
  
"What do you mean, Grandmother?" Jim asked her, frowning. "Why is it the nature of his calling?"  
  
"Blair is a shaman, Jim, just as you are a guardian. These are the callings you have, the burdens you carry." She cocked her head and looked first at Jim, then at Blair. "You both need more time alone together, I'm thinking, time to reconnect. Don't neglect that. Be mindful of the fact that you have a symbiotic relationship, that you are connected on a level deeper than even you think." She snorted. "And that's all the advice you're getting out of me tonight."  
  
There was silence at the table for a moment, broken when Violet stood and began collecting plates. Jim and Blair also climbed -- groaning -- to their feet to help. Grandmother looked for a moment like she wanted to object to their helping, but Jim gave her a half-humorous, half-scowling look, and she subsided with a chuckle. "Jim, you have a scowl that could frighten a bear."  
  
"You should have seen him at the party, Grandmother," Violet agreed, chuckling. "A veritable force of nature is our _noeqkikha pus_."  
  
"I hate it when you do that," Jim complained, flicking the dishtowel at her. "I never know if you're making fun of me."  
  
"You're just going to have to learn Salish, then," Violet told him, leaning back against him and fluttering her eyelashes. "Then you can learn all my terrible secrets."  
  
Blair was chuckling. "Terrible secrets my ass," he muttered, and Jim bumped against his hip, grinning. "She's calling you a black cat, O Sentinel mine."  
  
"Oh, so that's what it is," Jim said, laughing. "I thought she was referring to some cell phone or something." He laughed harder when Violet rolled her eyes. "Why don't you call me Enqueri like Grandmother does?"  
  
"Because I haven't earned the right to use your spirit name," Violet said, dropping more silverware into the dishwasher. "Names have power, Jim. You know that."  
  
Jim gave her a half-hearted glare. "You _know_ I hate all that mystical sh -- stuff," he amended hastily, and they all laughed, making him roll his eyes. After a moment, he added, looking at Grandmother, "So, it's like when you call Blair 'little wolf' in, uh, Salish," She nodded. "But you call Violet kitten, don't you?"  
  
"No, I call her _k'weit'en_ , or mouse," Grandmother corrected him. Morrie had climbed up her jeans-clad leg and was shamelessly begging for scraps from the plate still before her. "That's because her spirit guide is a mouse."  
  
Jim looked askance at Violet. "Really?" She nodded. "Doesn't seem to fit you, somehow," he mused.  
  
"Don't be deceived by looks, Enqueri," Grandmother said. "A mouse is small, yes, but capable of large things -- as you would know if you ever had a mouse in your house. And there are few that are braver, ounce for ounce. Like my _khwew'itchi'steng kw sh nei'ems_."  
  
"Now, I know what that means -- um, I think," Jim said. "Student. Morrie, you've already eaten. Get away from there."  
  
"Shaman in training," Violet stage-whispered to him.  
  
"Thanks," he whispered back.  
  
"Blair, will you come with me to my office? I've got a few books I've been meaning to give you," Grandmother said, rising with effort.  
  
"Violet and I have the dishes," Jim confirmed when Blair glanced at him. "Go on." And as they left the kitchen, Jim said to Violet, "And this gives me the chance to give you twenty questions about last night."  
  
"Oh, Jim," Violet was nearly whining -- and Violet _never_ whined. "It's not that important..."  
  
"Nuh-uh, kid. Spill it." Jim looked at her over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, as he scrubbed one of the pots that wouldn't go into the dishwasher. Reluctantly, Violet grabbed a dishcloth, ready to dry the rinsed pots.  
  
Sighing, she began talking. "Okay, okay. His name is Dennis Gorman. He and his father moved here a couple months ago, up from Seattle. His father moved in on the Center after they arrived, he's some big shot in the Tlingit nation, apparently, and feels entitled or some crap like that. Dennis apparently feels like his heir apparent or crown prince -- God knows he acts like it. He's a bully, a prejudiced son of a bitch and a lowlife loser. There. That satisfy you?"  
  
Violet's voice became increasingly harsh as she spoke about the boy, and Jim found himself turning to her in surprise. "Maybe you should tell me how you _really_ feel," he said gently when she seemed to have finished.  
  
She snorted in laughter and looked down. "Sorry. Well, no, I 'm not, not very. Grandmother would scold me about now, I'm sure. But I don't like him, and I don't really care for his father either. They've been causing trouble at the Center since they arrived, and nobody seems to want to confront them about it."  
  
"What kind of trouble?" Jim asked, frowning.  
  
"Oh, lots of stuff," Violet said, her voice resigned. "The Center is run by committee, which Grandmother really heads, sorta, well, you know, as elder of the tribe. But he wants that spot. Tlingit are a very patriarchal bunch, and the Gormans apparently don't believe that women should be shaman. We Salish are separate from the Tlingit nation -- although we're closely related -- and we're a hell of a lot more liberal. And Grandmother isn't even full Salishan, she's part Haida, which really pisses them off. So they're unhappy with the fact that she's tribal Elder and shaman of this branch, not to mention archivist and spiritual head of the Center." She sighed, put away the pot she had dried, and picked up another. "Dennis wants to be a shaman. He's far too old for a vision quest, doesn't have the patience for a spirit walk -- he just wants to have the power given to him on a silver platter."  
  
"Your power," Jim said quietly, beginning to understand.  
  
"Yeah." She looked up at Jim through her lashes. "Power is transferred through the female. He thinks that by 'joining' with me, he'll get my power. He's so lame -- he has _no_ clue what the whole shaman thing is all about. But you see why I don't want Daryl involved?"  
  
"Actually, I do," Jim said, absently scouring a pan crusted with browned onion. "But I think you're not giving him the credit he deserves, sport. Daryl has a good head on his shoulders. If you leveled with him, told him about this creep, and asked for his advice, he wouldn't go off half-cocked."  
  
Violet sighed again. "Well... I guess I could. Maybe I should. Maybe I'm putting how much _I_ want to paste Dennis into the pavement onto Daryl."  
  
"Now, don't _you_ start, firecracker," Jim laughed. "I'd hate to have to arrest you for assault and battery. Daryl would merely break his nose -- you'd probably put him in the hospital!"  
  
"Hiiiii-ya!" Violet struck a pose and then whapped Jim on the butt with her towel. "Fear me, it's Darth Shaman!"  
  
Jim shook his head, laughing. " _And_ you've been watching far too many Star Wars movies. Here. Make yourself useful, Darth Shaman." He handed her a wet pot, and, smirking, she took it from him.  
  


* * *

  
Monday morning did not start off well. "Sandburg! Ellison! In here!" Simon bellowed shortly after arriving. Hoping to get lucky, the two detectives took their empty coffee cups with them so were ready when Simon offered. "Sandburg, I've got one for you to be primary on," Simon told them, filling their cups. "A burglary at the CNARC."  
  
"Huh?" Blair's cup was on his way to his lips when Simon dropped that bomb, and he froze. "A B and E at the Center? When?"  
  
"Sometime Saturday night," Simon said, referring to a folder which he passed to them. "Richards in Burglary was primary yesterday. Here are his records; he's got some interviews still in transcript. It was bumped up to us this morning at the request of tribal elders, apparently. Some priceless artifacts have shown up missing, and it looks like it might have been an inside job. You'll need to speak to a Regina Burke over at the Center, she's got all the information."  
  
"Whoa," Blair said, reading the information sheet and holding the file so that Jim could read over his shoulder. "And you want me primary?"  
  
"Yeah, you've got clout over there and you're well-known. Let's get this straightened out quickly, please, I don't need the Chief putting pressure on me. You have any other really active cases at the moment?"  
  
Jim shook his head, and Blair said "Not really, although I'm due in court on the Janowicz case later this week."  
  
"When's that?" Simon asked, checking his calendar.  
  
"Wednesday is what the ADA says," Blair replied.  
  
"Fine. Get out of here, then."  
  
"Ah, another case for the Academy's star student, " Jim drawled as they headed back to their desks. "You sure you're gonna need my help on this one, Chief? Don't want to hold you back there..."  
  
Blair gave him a withering glance. "Grow up, Ellison," he laughed. "Just because you can't order me to stay in the truck any more..."  
  
"Low blow, Chief, low blow," Jim grinned at him. "You want to stop by Richards' desk on our way out?"  
  
"Yeah. I want to see if those transcripts have come back yet."  
  
They hadn't, so the partners headed off for the Center. "Feels weird to be going on business," Blair mused, still reading through the file as Jim drove.  
  
"Will Grandmother be there?" Jim asked. "I don't like the way she wasn't eating Saturday night."  
  
"Me, neither," Blair agreed. "I don't think she comes in Mondays, though. And why do you think you'd have more say in how she feels here? You know she hates anyone hovering over her."  
  
Grandmother wasn't there, but Mrs. "Prim-and-Proper" Burke was, and she made sure they were aware of her displeasure. "It's a shame, more than a crime, that something like this could happen here," she muttered as she led them through the building. "You're aware of the good we do, Mr. Sandburg," she said to Blair. "That someone could have done this..."  
  
Among the missing items was an ancient bentbox from the artifact museum. Other pieces had been taken as well, but the bentbox was the most valuable, and was, in fact, the museum's most valuable artifact. The small room that housed the artifacts was cordoned off with police tape, which Jim and Blair ignored. Mrs. Burke followed their lead.  
  
The artifacts were arranged around the room, some behind glass and some out on tables for closer examination. In all, the Center owned or displayed some three hundred pieces of varying worth -- the more expensive or fragile items were kept locked up in glass cases along the wall. One of those cases had been broken, and the shelf behind it showed several vacant spaces. There were vacant spaces on a few of the tables as well.  
  
"Do you have that inventory of the missing pieces, Mrs. Burke? The one Detective Richards asked you for?" Blair asked her, carefully examining the broken glass case.  
  
"Yes, we worked on it all afternoon," she replied. "None of the other pieces taken were as valuable as the bentbox. I simply can't imagine why anyone would take it."  
  
"Could you get me that list then, please?" Blair said, turning and flashing her a smile. She nodded, and reluctantly left the room. "Good. I need you to go over the room carefully, Jim," Blair said softly to his partner. "Forensics has been here, but you're better."  
  
"Nice to know," Jim grumbled, but he gave Blair a smile. "Whoever did this was good -- duct tape on the glass to keep it from shattering or making a lot of noise; some pieces left while others taken. They knew what they wanted."  
  
"Obviously," Blair agreed. "No fingerprints either, according to Forensics, and no sign of forced entry anywhere in the building. Jim, this _had_ to be an inside job. I'm going to have to look at that list to try and figure out why just those pieces were taken."  
  
"I'd say fencing was out," Jim said dryly, looking carefully at the glass pieces and the carpet beneath the broken case. "These pieces wouldn't be valuable on the open market, I'll bet."  
  
"Collectors, maybe," Blair said absently, keeping one hand on Jim's shoulder to ground him. "Anything?"  
  
"No," Jim replied. "I want to look at the inside of the case. Can you get the key to open it?"  
  
"Be right back," Blair replied. He left the room only to nearly run down Mrs. Burke. "We need the key to open the case that was broken into," Blair asked her. "Do you have it?"  
  
"Of course," she replied, raising her eyebrow as if he had suggested she did not. Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she removed a large key ring with dozens of keys suspended from it. Jim was carefully examining the base of one of the mid-room tables when they returned, and Mrs. Burke unlocked the cabinet for Blair. "Here's the list for you, Detective Sandburg," she said, giving him a computer print-out. "There's several items on the list, and many of them were quite small. I hope you can recover them."  
  
Blair scanned the list quickly, then stopped and went back over it with a frown. "Are you sure this is all that was taken?" he asked slowly.  
  
"Yes, that's it," she replied with some asperity. "I am quite certain."  
  
Jim rose and went with Blair to look at the case as Mrs. Burke opened it. The entire glass wall swung open to give them access to the rest of the artifacts and the inside of the case. Traces of powder still lingered from where Forensics had dusted for fingerprints. Jim turned his attention to the inside of the glass; Blair could see him training all his senses on it.  
  
"What's going on here?" a deep voice asked from the door, and Blair turned quickly.  
  
The man who stood in the doorway was one Blair hadn't met, but he carried himself as if he owned the place. He was of medium height, thick-set and of native descent. His iron-gray hair was pulled away from his face and gathered at the back of his neck in a ponytail that extended down his back. "Ah, John," Mrs. Burke said. Blair was surprised to note that her voice lost its imperious tone and suddenly turned tentative. "Cascade Police is here again. They're investigating the theft from Saturday night. This is Detective Sandburg and Detective Ell--"  
  
"I wasn't aware that the Salishan nation required the help of outsiders to resolve internal disputes," the man said icily. "And I was led to believe this was an internal matter."  
  
"There's no direct evidence of that, sir," Blair said, glancing quickly at Jim. "I've been assigned to investigate this personally, since--"  
  
"I don't care who requested what," the man interrupted again. "I've contacted the elders in Seattle, letting them know what happened. If necessary, they can conduct a real investigation."  
  
Both Jim and Blair were frowning as Blair said, "Seattle police have no jurisdiction here, Mr. ...?"  
  
The man finally turned to Blair, seeming to acknowledge him for the first time. "I am John Blackbear Gorman, tribal elder of the Tlingit nation," he said. His eyes narrowed as he swept Blair up and down with his gaze.  
  
"Detective Blair Sandburg, Major Crime Division, Cascade Police Department," Blair replied blandly. He did not offer his hand. "This is my partner, Detective Jim Ellison. I assure you, Mr. Gorman, we will be turning our full time and attention to this theft, the sooner to resolve it. Calling in other investigators would only cloud the issue."  
  
Just behind him, Blair could feel Jim step closer. Oddly enough, he heard and felt the growl of an animal, but Blair was certain it was not on the material plane. His hackles rose. This man -- Gorman -- reeked of power, but there was a subtle wrongness, something about him that put Blair on edge, made him bristle, made him instantly dislike the man. Jim, apparently, felt the same way, from the way he was hovering.  
  
"Detective Sandburg has a point, John," Mrs. Burke said, her voice unusually high. "Blair is familiar with every part of the Center, and is a shaman himself, actually." Blair blinked. It was the first time he could ever recall having Mrs. Burke call him by his given name.  
  
"Really." Gorman's face didn't change, but his air of frosty disdain intensified. "Well, if that's the way you wish to handle it, then." His expression indicating his distaste, he nodded once, shortly, and left.  
  
"What a piece of work," Blair murmured to himself. He heard Jim's light snort of agreement behind him.  
  
"Oh, Detective Sandburg, I'm sorry," Mrs. Burke was saying, and Blair turned his attention to calming her down before wrapping up their investigation. "John moved in here early last month and he's been making everything crazy."  
  
Blair frowned. "Crazy... how, Mrs. Burke? He's obviously not very happy with our presence..."  
  
"Or anyone else's, actually," she finished for him, obviously frustrated. "He -- he tends to look down his nose at anyone not of 'pure blood'... though I'd like to find _any_ one like that these days," she finished testily, some of her usual brusqueness coming through. "There's just no pleasing him at all. But I do apologize for his behavior towards you."  
  
"Oh, no need, really," Blair said, thoughtfully staring at the door through which Gorman had left. "I think we're done here anyway. Jim?"  
  


* * *

  
Blair was thoughtfully silent all the way back to the station, alternately staring at the list of stolen items and the report from Burglary. When Jim pulled the truck into their usual spot, Blair made no move to get out, and seemed to be lost in thought.  
  
"Earth to Sandburg," Jim said, waving one hand in front of Blair's face.  
  
Catching the hand, Blair laced his fingers with Jim's and smiled. "I'm here, really. Just... thinking. I need to do some research on the 'net. Can you stop by Richards' desk and see if those transcripts are in?"  
  
"Yeah, sure," Jim replied, frowning. "You've got something on your mind."  
  
"Always, Jim, always," Blair replied. "The items taken... well, if I'm not mistaken, I think their significance lies in what they are -- not in their worth. Someone was after them for a reason."  
  
"Not reselling."  
  
"No, not reselling," Blair agreed. "Using. But I've got to get some more research on it. Meet me at our desks?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
The transcripts were finally ready, and Jim skimmed them on the way up to the bullpen from Burglary. Mrs. Burke's was straightforward, as was the report from the alarm company that monitored the Center. There had been no physical presence, no night-watchman, since no one at the Center had believed it to be necessary. The other transcripts were from the young woman who had opened the Center Sunday morning, and from two members of the cleaning crew, who were thought to be the last people in the building Saturday evening.  
  
Blair was deeply engrossed in something on his terminal when Jim returned, so Jim pulled his chair over and scooted next to him, the better to read over his shoulder. The site dealt with Salishan artifacts and shamanism, and Blair shot Jim a grin over his shoulder before pointing out a particular passage. "This is what I was thinking of," he said. "Right here. One of the artifacts stolen was a deerskin drum that dated back about five hundred years or so. According to this site, those types of drums have special significance in shamanistic rituals. They actually produce a frequency of four to seven cycles per second, which corresponds to the theta range EEG."  
  
Jim blinked. "In English, Chief," he said, still reading the article.  
  
"Okay, okay, think of it like this. Theta rhythms have been known to be associated with creativity, vivid imagery, and states of -- well, reverie, or deep meditation. Like on a spirit walk. These particular drums echo and enhance the theta rhythms, make it easier for someone to slip into deep meditation." Hopefully, Blair looked up at Jim, who nodded slowly.  
  
"I get you," Jim said. "You're saying whoever took the drum might be meaning to use it to enhance his or her shaman ability."  
  
"Or to find it," Blair concurred.  
  
"But what about the other stuff?"  
  
Blair frowned. "The bentbox is easy; the outside was carved in a bas relief of a shaman appealing to and finding his _yek_. That's what originally gave me the idea: the drum in conjunction with the box. The lantern is a piece only about two hundred years old, and again, had a carving in relief of shamanic crossings. It's also deep enough to burn mescal or jimson weed."  
  
Jim looked at Blair with narrowed eyes. "Chief..."  
  
"Chill out, supercop," Blair laughed. "I'm one now too, remember? I'm not suggesting anything." Blair went back to reading, ignoring Jim's snort of disbelief.  
  
"So, what about the other pieces?" Jim asked finally, when Blair didn't say anything else.  
  
"They all appear to be related to shamanistic journeying or ritual," Blair said absently, his eyes flashing over the words on the monitor. "The bone carved as a bridge, the ceremonial horn knife, the carved animals... I think what we got here is a wannabe-shaman, or perhaps a full shaman who is hoping to create a little chaos on the spirit plane for his own benefit."  
  
"You're suspecting Gorman," Jim said quietly, and Blair stiffened.  
  
"I didn't say that," he replied, equally softly.  
  
"But it makes sense," Jim said. "He had opportunity, according to Mrs. Burke's transcript. He's one of the few with unlimited access to the Center."  
  
"But did he have motive?" Blair turned away from the screen and looked seriously at Jim. "I don't like him either. But what would his motive be for stealing this stuff? He's already got power. I could feel it."  
  
"You said someone who's interested in creating a little havoc," Jim reminded him. "No one seems to like this Gorman, but he's obviously got ambitions at the Center. And you heard him diss us in our investigation. Solving this burglary -- especially if he did it -- would put a feather in his cap."  
  
"I don't buy it," Blair said, frowning. "I mean, yeah, it makes sense, but -- it doesn't feel quite right somehow."  
  
"What about his kid, the one who's been hassling Violet?"  
  
Blair looked surprised for a moment. "That's right. Gorman. I'd -- I didn't make the connection."  
  
"I think we need to interview both the father and the son on this one, Chief." Jim handed over the transcripts. "And I think we ought to interview some more of the workers at the Center on their involvement in the way the Center is run. Don't discount my other theory, wonderkid."  
  
"How the hell are we going to justify this one?" Blair lamented. "Shamanistic _yek_ searches and rituals of power. Simon's going to have a cow."  
  
Jim just grinned. "That's why _you're_ primary, Chief," he said, laughing when Blair gave him the finger.  
  


* * *

  
Blair had been a cop -- or close enough to it -- for long enough to know that most police work was sitting on one's butt and making phone calls or writing reports. They had to go over the transcripts of the interviews carefully, each making notations of who they wanted to talk to, either for the first time or as a re-interview. Jim's list was nearly an exact copy of Blair's, and heading each was Gorman, senior and junior.  
  
As an elder and shaman of the Tlingit nation, upon moving to Cascade John Blackbear Gorman had been received by the CNARC with hospitality, something he took immediate advantage of. He was given keys to all the major areas as well as unlimited access. There were only five people who had such access: Gorman, Regina Burke, the two senior members of the Center's administrative staff -- one of whom had discovered the theft -- and Grandmother Raven. There were a good dozen who had limited access -- could unlock the front doors, or had access to various areas once inside the Center -- but those five people were the only ones with complete and unlimited access.  
  
Of those five people, only Gorman and Grandmother Raven hadn't been interviewed. Since there had been no sign of forced entry -- either to the Center itself or to the museum door, which was kept locked during non-business hours -- it was essential that all five be interviewed for any information on the whereabouts of their keys. Grandmother's interview was easy to set up, and since they had been with her until late Saturday night, they were able to provide her with a limited alibi. Gorman, however, proved difficult to talk to.  
  
Phone calls to him from Monday afternoon through Tuesday afternoon went unreturned. When he finally did deign to return their calls, the only time he could meet was Wednesday at noon. Blair was less than happy about that, since he had to be in court all day, and had wanted to meet with Gorman personally.  
  
"Don't sweat it, Chief," Jim told him that morning. He was eating eggs scrambled with ham out of the frying pan at the kitchen island and talking to Blair, who was getting dressed up in their bedroom. "I've been grilling suspects for a long time now, I think I can handle him."  
  
"I know, I know," Blair said, carefully knotting his tie. He hunted on the dresser for the pewter wolf tie-tack Jim had given him for the last Christmas, found it, and put it in place. "I just wanted to talk to him again, get a feel for him. And don't think I'm not suspicious of the fact that he could only meet on a day when _I_ can't. I know you felt the -- the -- oh shit, what... the wrongness? About him. When we talked to him Monday."  
  
"Yeah, I did," Jim agreed, turning to pour Blair a cup of coffee as he began to descend from the loft. "Don't worry, I'll use the full senses on him, Sandburg, and give you a complete report when -- whoa."  
  
Blair stopped dead at the exclamation. Jim was frozen in the act of turning and handing him a mug of coffee, staring at Blair with big eyes. Blair looked down at himself quickly, afraid there must be a large stain on his good 'court suit', but all appeared fine. "What? I've got a booger hanging from my nose?"  
  
"I just... you..." Jim swallowed hard. "You look -- really -- good, Chief," he finally managed to choke out. He put the coffee on the counter without taking his eyes from Blair, and crossed the few feet that separated them. Gently, he tugged on the knot in Blair's tie. "This is the tie I gave you for your birthday, isn't it?" he asked, his voice thick.  
  
Blair flushed suddenly, recognizing the heat in Jim's eyes and feeling it grow in his own body. "Yeah," he said softly. "I guess it's been a while since I've had to go to court, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," Jim echoed. "I -- we -- well, we don't have a need to get dressed up much anymore, and I guess I forgot how nice you looked in a suit."  
  
"I'll have to do it more often," Blair murmured, delighting in the way Jim's gaze raked him up and down.  
  
"Uh, yeah," Jim said, smoothing Blair's lapels, then using them to tug Blair closer. "Like when we don't have to leave for work in five minutes." He locked his mouth over Blair's, kissing him deeply, hungrily, for all the world as if they hadn't loved each other senseless just the evening before.  
  
Blair let his arms wind around Jim's waist as he submitted to the kiss, let his Sentinel taste and claim him, aware of their hurry but reveling in how much Jim loved and needed him. After a lovely long time, they slowly broke apart, and Jim kissed Blair's nose. "Now we're really getting late," he mumbled, not quite releasing him, despite his words.  
  
"Yep," Blair replied. He let one arm reach out and take the mug from the counter to sip the coffee -- fixed just the way he liked it, of course. "But it was worth it. I'll just have to tell the D.A. that I was unavoidably detained."  
  
"Detained, huh?" Jim said, the heat in his eyes becoming laced with humor.  
  
"Yep," Blair said again, taking another sip. "Strip searched, even."  
  
Jim groaned. "Babe, don't even go there, okay?" he pleaded. Blair laughed and Jim joined him, reluctantly letting go.  
  
"Make you a deal," Blair said, finishing his coffee quickly. "We leave now, and tonight you can strip search me to your heart's content."  
  
"Body cavity search as well?" Jim asked, his eyes dancing as he quickly began cleaning up the kitchen.  
  
It was Blair's turn to groan. "Jimmmmm..." he pleaded, adjusting himself quickly.  
  
"We'd better get out of here now," Jim said, still chuckling.  
  


* * *

  
With Blair spending Wednesday in court, Jim almost felt like a rudderless boat, drifting along with the current. It was almost shocking to him to realize how much he had come to depend on Blair's presence during his normal day -- but not all that surprising, once he thought about it. Even back when Blair had been an overworked and underpaid grad student, he had managed to make himself indispensable to Jim.  
  
Gorman's interview was at noon at the Center, so Jim arranged to meet with Grandmother for a late lunch afterwards, just to say hi, since he already had her interview and statement -- they had met with her on Monday. He got there early, dropping off a sack full of lunch sandwiches with Terry MacBride, one of the regular receptionists, and inquiring after Gorman's whereabouts.  
  
"He's got an office here, now," Terry told him, sniffing the sack full of food. "Anything in here for me?" she asked coyly, smiling at Jim.  
  
"If you're good," he replied, giving her a wink and a grin. "How long has he had an office?"  
  
"Oh, gee," she said, frowning. "Since the day he arrived, practically." She stashed the bag under her desk. "We were lucky we had an extra one vacant. You want me to call him?"  
  
"Sure. Thanks, Terry," he replied, absently.  
  
Gorman kept him waiting in the atrium for several minutes past their appointment time. Rather than being irritated, Jim wondered why -- especially when Terry told him that Gorman had no other appointments and wasn't on the phone. Apparently, the man felt it necessary to show his own power even in this minor setting, and that made Jim even more suspicious of him. Finally, at nearly a quarter past noon, Gorman called out to the front desk and requested someone escort Jim back to his office, rather than meeting Jim himself. Jim exchanged an exasperated look with Terry, then followed her directions back to Gorman's office.  
  
Jim thought it funny that Grandmother -- who had enough commitments to almost be considered a full-time worker at the Center -- had a mere cubby-hole lined with books, while Gorman -- who had only been in Cascade for two months -- had a large office with a door, a desk, a phone and a computer. The door to the office was open, and the man looked up from that computer as Jim appeared. "Yes?" He gave the impression of being harried and busy, but according to Terry's gossip, he -- so far -- rarely did anything at the Center.  
  
"Detective Ellison, Cascade Police, Mr. Gorman," Jim identified himself politely. He pulled his shield out of his belt and held it up for Gorman to see.  
  
"Oh, yes. Come in, Detective." Gorman did not offer his hand, and neither did Jim. Seated and at ease, Gorman appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His iron-grey hair was still pulled back severely from his face, but Jim remembered it cascaded down to the middle of his back. "I'm afraid I don't have a lot of time to give you, today. What is this in reference to?"  
  
"As you know, we're investigating the burglary of several artifacts from the Center," Jim said. Rather than take one of the two chairs before Gorman's desk, he chose to stand, at parade rest. "I'd like to ask you a few questions in reference to that."  
  
Gorman gave him an icy glare. "Surely you can't possibly suspect I'm involved in this reprehensible act," he said.  
  
Jim fought the silly urge to say "Don't call me Shirley" as he studied the man. As he had the last time they met, Gorman seemed to be bringing out the prickly side of Jim, making him think of that lousy cretin who had dumped a load of manure in the loft. "We need to interview everyone who had access to the Center, Mr. Gorman," he explained gently, tightly reining in his impatience. "At this point, everyone and no one is a suspect. Until we have more information, we can determine nothing."  
  
Frowning thunderously, Gorman pushed himself back from his desk. "I see," he said, his voice hard. "Very well, ask away, Detective."  
  
"Do you mind if I tape this conversation?" Jim asked, pulling his small tape recorder from his pocket. "I find that it helps my memory and keeps disputes down."  
  
"Fine." Gorman watched, stone-faced, as Jim placed the small recorder on the desk between them and turned it on. Jim then sat down in one of the chairs.  
  
Prefacing his first question with the date, time and the statement that Gorman had given him permission to tape the proceedings, Jim looked up and kept his expression bland. "Mr. Gorman, could you state your full name for the record?"  
  
"John Blackbear Gorman," was his reply.  
  
"Could you state your home address, please?"  
  
"Twenty-two thirty-seven Delilah Court, Cascade, Washington."  
  
"How long have you resided in Cascade, Mr. Gorman?"  
  
"I moved to Cascade from Seattle two months ago as of the twentieth."  
  
"Thank you. Last Saturday night, the twenty-third, there was a burglary at the Cascade Native American Resource Center, resulting in the theft of several pieces of native American art. You are aware of this theft?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Mr. Gorman, I understand that you are one of five people who have complete, unlimited access to all areas of the Center. Is this true?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Oh-kay, so he was going to keep to clipped answers. Jim took a deep breath and released it slowly, thinking of Blair. "Can you account for your whereabouts and the whereabouts of your keys to the Center from Friday night through Sunday morning?"  
  
"I was at home with my son Friday night and all day Saturday. I was asleep Saturday night, and my keys are kept on me at all times," Gorman replied icily.  
  
"At all times, sir?" Jim asked, tipping his head to one side. "Are you certain that you --"  
  
"My keys are kept on me at all times, Detective," Gorman interrupted him sharply. "I am not in the habit of losing them."  
  
Right. "Yes sir," Jim said, keeping his incredulity to himself. "I understand your son lives with you. Can you confirm the whereabouts of--"  
  
"My son is my concern and none of yours," Gorman snarled. "He was with me the entire weekend."  
  
Jim blinked, and studied Gorman for a moment in silence. He was plainly furious -- for some reason -- but Jim's senses were telling him that the anger was covering up something else. What's more, Jim was suddenly reminded of his own father -- something in the way Gorman behaved or spoke. It was disconcerting, and Jim had to fight to maintain his composure. "I see," Jim said finally. "When was the last time you entered the museum part of the Center, Mr. Gorman?"  
  
"I'm not certain," Gorman replied. "It would have been sometime last week, I'm sure. That area is not my concern."  
  
"Ah," Jim said. "So you're not familiar with the artifacts kept there?"  
  
"Only in the most general way," Gorman said shortly.  
  
"One of the items stolen was a Salishan bentbox dating back about five hundred years," Jim said, monitoring the man closely. Gorman's heart rate and respiration were up, and his face was flushed. He was staring hard at Jim, seeming to want to bore right through him with his eyes. "Do you know of anyone in the past month who may have expressed an interest in --"  
  
There was a sudden growl behind Jim, and it was all Jim could do to keep from whipping around in surprise. He _recognized_ the growl, there was no doubt it was his spirit guide, but what the fuck was it doing here, in the middle of a witness interview?  
  
Even odder, Jim noted that the other man's reaction to the growl was electric. Gorman stiffened and his eyes practically bugged out, as they centered on something behind and to the left of Jim. All the blood drained from his face and his heart rate spiked. Sweat began to stand out on his forehead. Jim, caught in the middle of his thought, blinked and slowly closed his mouth before taking a breath and frowning. Deciding to ignore both the growl and Gorman's reaction to it, Jim firmly resisted the urge to turn and look behind him before continuing. "--Anyone who has expressed an interest in purchasing or collecting such a piece?"  
  
"I -- " Gorman suddenly seemed to have problems speaking. His gaze whipped from Jim to what was surely the black jaguar, totally at a loss. Jim let him have time to recover, sitting still and watching his consternation with curiosity. Oddly enough, Jim's feeling of anger and frustration with the man began to rapidly fade, and he found it easier to maintain his composure. "I -- " There were no more growls, and slowly, the feeling of _presence_ behind Jim faded. "I -- I'm sorry, what was the question?"  
  
"Do you know of anyone in the past month who has expressed an interest in purchasing or otherwise obtaining such a piece as the bentbox?" Jim asked gently. It was clear that the sudden appearance of the jaguar had unnerved the man. Not, of course, that it _ever_ unnerved Jim.  
  
"No... no. No one has -- has mentioned anything of the sort to me," Gorman replied, his manner much more hesitant. "And if they had, I would have put them in their place. Such artifacts are not for public consumption outside the tribal nation." Now, that sounded much more in tune with the man's demeanor so far.  
  
"That's true, and I'm glad to hear you would take that stance," Jim said easily. "If you do hear of something to that effect, I'd appreciate it if you would contact me or Detective Sandburg." Pulling his wallet from his pocket, Jim fished out a card and put it on Gorman's desk. "And if you happen to think of anything unusual that may have occurred Friday or Saturday at the Center, I'd appreciate a call on that as well."  
  
"Is that all then?" Gorman asked, still flustered.  
  
"That's all for now," Jim replied, turning off the recorder. "I'm sure if we have any further questions you'll be available to answer them," he finished, rising and putting the small recorder in his pocket. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Gorman."  
  
Gorman remained seated, looking somewhat shell-shocked, as Jim took his departure. Thoughtfully, Jim made his way back to the atrium and retrieved his bag of food from Terry. "Do you know where Grandmother is?" he asked her, and was directed into the multi-purpose room.  
  
Grandmother Raven sat at a long table with a couple of dozen other women, looking at and sorting small square pieces of colorful fabric. She looked up when Jim entered the room and smiled at him. "Ah, there's my date. You're early, Jim."  
  
"Sorry, Grandmother," he said, helping her rise from her chair. "Got done a bit earlier than I thought. You ready for lunch?"  
  
"I could eat." She directed him out of the room, but not before Jim endured the appreciative glances and smiles from the other ladies at the table.  
  
"Your _date_?" he teased her, grinning.  
  
"Hey, you get to be my age, you take what fun you can, where you can," she laughed at him. "Let's go in here; there's a table to eat at and the soda pop machine is right next door."  
  
It was the work of only a few minutes to get them settled in a quiet, far corner of the room with drinks and sandwiches spread out. Jim had brought an assortment of what he knew to be her favorites, hoping to entice her to eat. She looked as though she were losing weight -- weight she could ill-afford to lose -- and he knew she didn't have much of an appetite lately.  
  
"So, tell me, where's your better half?" Grandmother asked as she carefully cut a large ham and swiss with mustard in half.  
  
"In court all day," Jim replied mournfully.  
  
"You break my heart, Jim," she laughed at his expression. "You'll get by."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Jim said, his eyes dancing as he bit into his own sandwich. "I get no sympathy from anybody."  
  
They ate in companionable silence for a few moments before Jim brought up Gorman. Before he did, however, he did a sweep of the area immediately outside their room and heard nothing. "By the way," he said quietly, "I interviewed Mr. Gorman just before I met you."  
  
"Did you, now," Grandmother said, her voice bland. She took a sip of her soda. "I suppose you had to ask him the same questions you asked me."  
  
"Essentially," Jim said. "How well do you know him, Grandmother?"  
  
She looked at him narrowly over her sandwich. "Have you been talking to Violet?"  
  
"Huh?" Jim switched gears quickly. "No, I mean, not since Saturday. Why?"  
  
Grandmother sighed and put her sandwich down. "Violet does not like him -- or his son. She's made that opinion known to me on several occasions."  
  
"Well, yeah, she mentioned that Saturday, mainly because of something I overheard at the dance," Jim said. "Why wouldn't she like them?"  
  
"Mr. Gorman is not a pleasant man," Grandmother said softly. "He would like to butt heads with me, but is finding that difficult since I simply choose to ignore him. I believe he is a man who is used to power and used to wielding it, as well as being the most powerful person in an area. It disturbs him that I have power, and disturbs him further that I won't let him measure his against mine."  
  
Having just taken a big bite of his sandwich, Jim wasn't able to reply to this for a moment. Finally, he cleared his mouth and frowned at Grandmother. "I don't get it," he said. "What do you mean, he wants to butt heads with you? Literally?"  
  
"Well, no, not literally," she allowed. She pulled at the bread of her sandwich thoughtfully. "I'm tribal elder, Jim, you know that." He nodded. "There's more to that than just being the oldest person here -- which I'm not, by the way. Because I'm a shaman, I wield certain power and command a certain amount of respect. But I am female, and Mr. Gorman is not happy with that." She took a small bite of her sandwich and chewed, clearly thinking. Jim let her, knowing she would continue in her own time.  
  
Finally, she did so. "Although I do not know this personally -- only through hearsay, mind you -- I am lead to understand that Mr. Gorman had a falling out among the other shaman of the Tlingit nation in Seattle, and that is why he moved to Cascade. When there is more than one person in an area with power, a balance must be struck or the result is similar to having two alpha dogs in one territory. I am willing to live and let live. Mr. Gorman, apparently, is not."  
  
Jim sat back and thought about this. On one hand, the entire idea of shamanistic power bugged the hell out of his rational mind, made his head hurt when he tried to contemplate it. On the other, he could understand her from a purely mundane point of view, and that, he found, didn't make his head hurt. "So," he said slowly, "he's like a drug lord. He's come up here for a new audience, to try for more authority, basically to take over your turf. But you won't fight with him over it."  
  
"No, I won't," Grandmother replied, her eyes twinkling at his analogy. "Violet is young, she's very much the feisty feminist, and it drives her crazy that someone could think less of her merely for being female. I'm old; I've seen and heard it all. There isn't much any more that can bother or shock me."  
  
"Do you think --" Jim paused and reassessed his words. "Could Gorman be the type of person to disregard the law in order to consolidate his holdings?"  
  
Grandmother raised her eyebrows at him. "I hardly think he'd be the type of person to steal, if that's what you're implying, Jim. But," she added thoughtfully, "I don't know him very well. And I know nothing of him before he moved here."  
  
Jim thought about telling her what had happened during his interview with Gorman, but a whisper in the back of his mind dissuaded him. He'd be better off talking to Blair.  
  


* * *

  
It was a tired Blair who trudged up the steps to the loft sometime after six. He knew that Jim was already home -- from the lights he could see and because he had checked in with Simon when he had finally been released by the A.D.A. As he neared the third floor landing, he smelled the wonderful aroma of cooking dinner -- food! He hadn't had time for lunch between meeting with the A.D.A. and preparing his testimony and the rest of it. But his wonderful Sentinel was going to feed him now to make up for it.  
  
He followed his nose into the apartment, and was met at the door by a smiling Jim Ellison who relieved him of his shoulder case (a compromise solution to the ubiquitous backpack) and kissed his forehead. "You want time to shower before eating?" Jim asked.  
  
"Food..." Blair whimpered piteously, shamelessly letting his lower lip tremble.  
  
"I'll take that as a no," Jim grinned. "Go sit down. I'll serve you."  
  
Not needing any more prompting, Blair moved quickly to the table, sliding his tie from his neck and removing his suit coat as he went. Jim put a plate of stir-fry chicken over noodles in front of him, along with an opened beer, and he set about inhaling.  
  
Some uncounted time later, he looked up from his second or third helping -- he'd lost track of that too somewhere in there -- to find Jim's amused eyes on him. "No lunch?" Jim asked.  
  
Blair groaned. "No, no lunch," he confirmed. "But at least I don't have to go back tomorrow."  
  
"You done already?" Jim asked, blinking. He stood and picked up his plate, asking with a raised eyebrow if Blair was done with his.  
  
"Yeah, I'm done, to both," Blair said, pushing his chair back from the table. "That was fabulous, Mr. Ellison; you should be a gourmet chef."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Jim said, but Blair could tell he was pleased by the compliment. "So what happened at the trial?"  
  
"He took a plea," Blair said, standing and stretching the kinks out. "Of course, he didn't decide until after four, when the judge was about to call the trial over for the day. So, what happened to you today?"  
  
"Lots," Jim replied, running the water in the sink. "Let me get the dishes done here and I'll fill you in. Go take a shower."  
  
"Man, do I stink that bad?" Blair chuckled as Jim leered at him over his shoulder.  
  
"Hardly. But I can see exhaustion from here. Go clean up and we can sit on the sofa and I'll tell you all about what I found out today." Jim smiled at Blair, who smiled back and went to do as he was bid.  
  


* * *

  
One hot shower later, Blair met Jim on the sofa in the living room. Jim had the Center's burglary casework file folder, and Blair smiled as he recognized it. "Do we get OT for this?" he asked, making himself comfortable next to Jim.  
  
Jim pulled Blair to him and kissed him soundly. "Naw. You know cops, always on." Blair chuckled and nestled into Jim's side, making Jim practically purr in contentment. "I need to tell you what happened today on this, though. It was -- interesting."  
  
"Uh-oh, I don't like the sound of that," Blair said, straightening enough to look at Jim's face.  
  
Jim smiled wryly at him, then launched into a description of his meeting with John Blackbear Gorman. When Jim got to the part about hearing his spirit guide growl, Blair pulled completely away and stared at him. "You're sure?" he asked, his eyes wide.  
  
"'Course I'm sure," Jim replied, frowning. "And Gorman's face just about exploded -- he looked like Roger Rabbit on speed. I assume he saw it, as he was staring at the floor behind me."  
  
"Wow." Blair apparently couldn't sit still any longer. He jumped to his feet and began to pace. "Wow. You said he was staring at you before-hand, right? Staring hard... like maybe he was trying to control you?"  
  
"What?" Jim blinked at Blair, surprised and incredulous. "Wait wait wait. Control me? Where'd you get that from?"  
  
"Okay, let's go back over it," Blair said, running his hands through his hair. "You said his heart and respiration were off the chart, and he kept staring at you, but you couldn't figure out why."  
  
"Right, yeah," Jim replied, making a face. "He was angry, or at least that's the way it felt to me."  
  
"Angry. At what, then? What would he have to be angry at? And why would he be staring at you?"  
  
"I don't know why he'd be angry, Chief," Jim said, exasperated. He went back over the interview in his mind quickly, and felt his odd frustration with Gorman again. "He's that kind of guy. He put my teeth on edge. It was all I could do to be polite to him."  
  
"There you go," Blair said. "Jim, he was trying to control you. I -- I can just, I don't know, I can feel it. It's like a residual taint about you. And your spirit guide showed up to persuade him not to."  
  
Jim stared at Blair, speechless. When he realized his mouth was hanging open, he closed it slowly and shook his head. "This is -- goddammit, Sandburg, you know how much I hate this supernatural shit."  
  
"Oh, knock it off," Blair replied, grinning as he patted Jim's cheek on the way to the kitchen. "You should be used to it by now. You want a beer?"  
  
"Yeah, sure," Jim replied. Being 'used to it' was one thing... he still hated the whole idea of spirit guides and walks and all that -- that -- stuff. But he had to admit, Blair's words made a sort of weird sense. When Blair returned with two cold bottles, Jim said, "You really think that's what he was trying to do?"  
  
Blair plopped down in the chair opposite Jim and sighed. "Yeah, I do," he replied. "I'm not entirely sure why, but that's the most reasonable explanation."  
  
"Huh." Jim took a long drink from his bottle, thinking hard. It was a wonder there was no smoke coming from his ears -- but given the fond smile on Blair's face as he stared at Jim, perhaps he could see it regardless. "Well, that fits in with what Grandmother told me later, then."  
  
"Why? What'd she say?"  
  
"She said that Gorman struck her as the type of guy who's used to being on top," Jim said. "It's apparently driving him nuts that she refuses to engage with him. He knows you're a shaman, and knows you're my partner. I guess this was his way of testing the waters."  
  
"Well, let's hear it for your shadow, then," Blair grinned, holding up his bottle and drinking to the thought. Jim joined him. "Personally, I think the sight of that monster black cat is enough to make anyone pee their pants."  
  
"Whatever, Chief," Jim said, chuckling, privately thinking yeah, that's how it made him feel too. "Now, here's for the second half of it," he continued, waving the file folder.  
  
"But wait, there's more," Blair murmured, leaning forward, his eyes wide. "What is it?"  
  
"So, Grandmother said she didn't know much about Gorman here, and nothing about him before he moved here, which has only been about a month," Jim said. "So I ran him, through Seattle NICB."  
  
"Don't tell me," Blair said, incredulous. "He's got a record?"  
  
"Actually, no, he doesn't," Jim replied. "A few tickets, and one judgment against him that has since been cleared. For harassment," Jim said, looking at Blair significantly. Blair inhaled to speak, but Jim held up his hand to stop him. " _He_ doesn't, but guess who _does_ have a record? A fairly extensive juvvie record?"  
  
"Goddamn," Blair breathed, beginning to smile. "Ol' Dennis carries a tail, huh?"  
  
"You betcha, Chief," Jim replied, grinning at his partner's excitement. "Some of it's sealed, but a lot of it isn't. He's just eighteen; most of this stuff won't be purged until he's twenty-one. However, his last two convictions were as an adult. He was given probation, but..."  
  
"What's he been convicted of?"  
  
"Harassment, assault, and several for -- wait for it -- breaking and entering." Jim slapped the folder down on the coffee table, and Blair snatched it up, grinning ear-to-ear.  
  
Hastily skimming the print-outs containing Dennis Gorman's records, Blair looked back up at Jim triumphantly. "You done good, my Sentinel," he crowed, throwing the file on the coffee table and himself at Jim. Jim caught him -- barely -- and turned them so that they were half-lying on the sofa, holding each other and laughing.  
  
"Always good to know, O Shaman of the Great City," Jim murmured, putting a halt to Blair's chuckles by kissing him deeply. "Mmmm... I missed you today."  
  
"Missed you too," Blair replied, breathing heavily and shiny-eyed after the kiss. "Missed this, especially."  
  
"Kinda hard to do this at court," Jim agreed, twisting so that Blair was over him.  
  
"Yeah," Blair said, breathlessly. Carefully moving, Blair got them both fully on the sofa, then settled between Jim's spread legs. He hoisted himself up on his arms, looking down at his lover with a delighted expression, and Jim exulted. Oh, yeah. He loved it when Blair took control, took the lead in their lovemaking, loved being on the bottom and free to simply lie back and take it -- no pressure, no performance anxiety -- just feel, Ellison, just feel.  
  
It helped that this Blair, this new, more mature and stronger Blair, frequently enjoyed being in control. And when he was, it also meant that Jim was in for some long, slow, leisurely loving that would destroy ninety-percent of his brain cells before it was over and put a stupid smile on his face for at least the next full day.  
  
The first time Blair had taken control of their lovemaking, Jim had felt obliged to do something, to help somehow, to at least actively participate. Blair had disabused him of that notion fairly quickly, threatening to cuff him to the railing behind their bed ( _hmm... now there's a thought_ ) if he couldn't stay still. Jim had since learned to relax and let Blair do any-damn-thing he wanted to Jim's body, any-damn-time he wanted to. Blair didn't complain -- and Jim wasn't about to.  
  
Who'd-a thunk it... big Jim Ellison, a bottom-boy. And loving every minute of it.  
  
They took their time, pulling clothing off and exchanging increasingly heated kisses until neither could stand it any more. Then, as Blair propped one of Jim's legs up on the back of the sofa and pushed slowly into him, Jim just let his body slump -- well, most of his body. His cock thought it was all mighty good and was vastly enjoying the whole thing, and his nerve endings just sang out for joy.  
  
It had taken them a long time to get this far. Of course their first few times hadn't been perfect, but as they continued their explorations, things improved. Improved to the point that now, Blair was an expert at being inside Jim. He knew exactly where to push and how hard, and at what angle to get Jim groaning in pleasure. Leaning against the leg he had propped on the back of the sofa, Blair tucked Jim's other leg around his waist, braced himself on Jim's hips and simply stroked firmly, pausing for a moment while he was deep inside to close his eyes and enjoy. When he opened his eyes again, he looked down at Jim with such an expression of joy and love that it blew nearly every synapse in Jim's brain.  
  
Centering his sense of touch and concentrating, Jim could feel every square centimeter of the silken hardness that pierced him; it moved in and out and filled him so perfectly he almost wanted to cry. Blair's achingly familiar scent enveloped him, driving his arousal higher and making his eyes sag shut with pleasure. Blair drove himself deep again and Jim gasped and clenched his muscles tight for a moment, just to hear Blair's deep groan. It was almost as if they could see into each other's brains, feel what the other felt -- the more they did this, the stronger their connection became and although it scared Jim a bit when he thought about it, thinking was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment.  
  
Enjoying a long, leisurely fucking by the king of stamina -- Jim didn't know which god he had pleased to get it, but was terribly glad he had. Blair pushed his thick erection deeply inside Jim, then pulled out only to do it again -- and again -- and again. Jim had completely lost the power of coherent speech and was merely making very embarrassing mewling noises, arching with every fabulous thrust. Blair paused long enough to shift, and to pick up one of Jim's hands -- which had been grabbing tightly at the couch cushions, nearly ripping them -- and place it on Jim's hard, leaking cock, encouraging him to caress it. Then Blair started increasing his rhythm -- salty-sweet sweat dripping down his forehead to splash hotly on Jim's belly -- and Jim tried to keep up, he really did, but with Blair's shift in movement, he was raking over Jim's prostate constantly, and, well, Jim just lost it.  
  
With a gasping cry that might have been Blair's name, Jim's back arched almost painfully and his come shot between them in thick, pearly ropes. Blair tucked his chin nearly to his chest and rammed himself deep, shaking and moaning in delight as he fought his own orgasm and lost. Slowly they both settled down, Blair nearly tumbling head-first off the sofa as his climax made him weak. Jim, as always, caught him and held him close, mourning the loss of Blair's softening penis as it slipped from his body.  
  
"One word about the sofa cushions," Blair muttered indistinctly into Jim's chest as their breathing slowly evened out.  
  
Jim chuckled. "Nah, it's your turn to clean 'em anyway." They lay together, cuddled into the afterglow, until the dampness between them began to turn clammy and tacky and the cool air of the loft made it uncomfortable to be naked. Blair shifted first, reluctantly pulling away from his bed on Jim's body, looking down at Jim's face happily. Then he froze, and Jim winced.  
  
"Okay, you're thinking entirely too much for having been subjected to the Sandburg Method," Blair said, laughter in his voice belying his frown. "Quit that. Your brains are supposed to have melted."  
  
Jim could feel his cheeks coloring. "Sorry, Chief. If it's any consolation, my brains are melted," he said sincerely.  
  
"Yeah, I can see that," Blair said wryly. "Okay, spill it. You thinking about Gorman?"  
  
"Well, yeah," Jim said, giving Blair a kiss before letting him up. "It just struck me... if it's not him, if it wasn't him that stole the artifacts... then why would he have been trying to control me?"  
  
Blair paused in the act of sitting up and pulling off Jim. Jim's face heated at the lascivious look Blair gave him before shaking his head, as if to clear it. "You look absolutely edible," Blair murmured, smiling. "Ravished looks good on you." He cleared his throat. "Right. Gorman. I --" He paused, and blinked. "I don't know. It doesn't make much sense, does it?"  
  
"You think maybe he's in on it with his son?" Jim let Blair give him a hand up, wincing slightly then smiling as certain muscles quietly protested.  
  
"Don't know, Jim," Blair said, standing still, his hands on his hips, chewing on his lower lip, and it was Jim's turn to ogle that delicious body. Blair caught him at it and grinned. "Come on, you. Let's get cleaned up and go to bed and make some more messes."  
  
"Fucking animal," Jim muttered as he happily followed Blair's delicious ass to the bathroom.  
  


* * *

  
Thursday, they received two new cases and wrapped up an old one. They also gave Simon a report on the Center's situation, and told him about their possible suspect; he urged them to move on it. Trouble was, they couldn't get hold of either Gorman, pere or fils. According to all their sources at the Center, the elder Gorman had left early Wednesday afternoon, and had not been back. Hadn't called, hadn't left any messages -- but that had happened before, according to Terry MacBride. And, according to Daryl and Violet, Dennis Gorman wasn't in school Thursday. He wasn't in Friday, either. Calls to their house went unreturned. It was frustrating, but since they had no more than suspicions to go on, they couldn't put out an APB.  
  
Although they had tried to keep their interest in the younger Gorman casual, Violet picked up on it immediately, and excitedly offered to help them. It took Blair quite a bit of hard talking to keep her from doing a Nancy Drew and sneaking around the Gorman homestead for clues. They were resigned to waiting until the next week for more progress in the case until two phone calls, both late Friday, changed the situation.  
  
The first was from Terry, who had been given instructions to call if either Gorman tried to reach her. She called to let Blair know that John Gorman had finally called, looking for messages, and had let her know that he was in Seattle until Sunday evening. "Did you ask about Dennis?" Blair asked her, aware that Jim was listening in.  
  
"Yeah, I did, and he said that his son was home, or supposed to be," Terry replied. "I didn't tell him you were looking for him, though, Blair," she added. "I just said I'd had a message for him, from Violet. I figured that might be safer."  
  
Both Jim and Blair grinned at Terry's helpful tone; everyone wanted to be a detective. "Thanks, Ter," Blair said. "Let me know if you hear from Dennis Gorman?"  
  
"Will do, Blair. Say hi to Jim for me."  
  
Blair hung up the phone, frowning thoughtfully. "I wonder if this trip was planned," he said to Jim.  
  
"Yeah, me too," Jim replied, sitting back in his chair. "I wonder if he knows that his kid hasn't been in school since Wednesday. I wonder if he cares."  
  
"Something weird is going on here, Jim," Blair said, suddenly shaking as if cold. There was an odd hesitancy about everything abruptly, and he had the sensation Naomi had always called 'someone walking over my grave.' "I -- I've got the strangest feeling..."  
  
"It's late. Let's go on home, get something to eat," Jim said, frowning and glancing around the nearly empty bullpen. "You can meditate or whatever you need to do to try and figure it out."  
  
Blair rolled his eyes at Jim's deliberate obtuseness. "Yeah, yeah. Come on, man. It's Friday, so that means Thai."  
  
They argued genially all the way to the truck and part of the way to the Thai Palace, then fell silent as they continued home, cartons of food filling the cab of the truck with delicious aroma. Blair maintained his silence as he followed Jim up to the loft and set out plates. He had been hungry, but suddenly, his hunger deserted him and he found himself picking at his food. A touch on his hand made him jerk up to see a concerned Jim across the table. "Chief?"  
  
"Oh, sorry, I guess I'm just preoccupied," Blair said. "Were you saying something?"  
  
Jim shook his head and looked hard at Blair. "I've been talking to you for the last five minutes, Chief. You haven't heard me; you haven't touched your food. What's up?"  
  
Blair opened his mouth to reassure Jim, but before he could say anything, the phone rang, startling him badly. He leapt for it, ignoring Jim's open-mouthed surprise, and answered it with a breathless "Sandburg!"  
  
"Blair? It's Violet," he heard. Her voice sounded odd -- strained, somehow.  
  
"Violet? What's wrong? Where are you?" He was aware of Jim's puzzlement and growing concern, but shoved it aside for the moment.  
  
"I'm -- I'm home." Violet didn't seem at all surprised by his sudden demands. "I just left the Center, left Grandmother there. Blair, I think I saw Dennis."  
  
"Where?" There it was, that unnamed dread. It was growing, nearly choking him. "Where did you see him, Violet?"  
  
"In the parking lot, outside the Center. I -- I didn't -- it was weird, I didn't realize I had seen him until I almost got home. And... and... shit! Blair, I don't know why I left Grandmother there. What the hell was I thinking? She's got no way to get home, I need to get back there and..."  
  
"Absolutely not," Blair said firmly, putting as much command into his voice as he could. "You stay right there... _right there_ , do you hear me? Jim and I are on our way to the Center now. We'll deal with it."  
  
"Blair... Morrie's going crazy. Something's wrong. Oh, God..." Violet choked on a sob.  
  
"It's all right, squawgirl," Blair said softly, letting Jim help him back into his jacket. "We're on our way. You stay there." Not waiting for her reply, he killed the connection, tossed the phone on the cradle and followed Jim out of the loft at a dead run.  
  
Blair was never so grateful for his partner's crazy driving as he was that evening. Jim didn't even ask; he just put the lights and siren on as they careened across town toward the CNARC. The truck hadn't even come to a complete stop before Blair was out, racing for the front door of the Center, his nerves jangling, his own internal alarms going off full blast. Theirs was one of two vehicles in the parking lot, and Blair didn't have to look to see that one of them was Gorman's. Distantly, he heard Jim's panicked shout, could smell smoke on the air, but his focus was on the Center and on what was happening inside.  
  
Grandmother Raven was inside. And she was in danger.  
  
Bursting through the front doors -- they should have been locked, why weren't they locked? -- Blair didn't hesitate before racing back towards Grandmother's cubby-hole office. Somewhere along the line he had pulled his weapon, snapping off the safety, and as he approached through the increasing heat and stifling black smoke, he held it upright, against his face, ready. He skidded to a stop before the last corner in the long hallway, waving the smoke from his face as he peered around it.  
  
It was an open storage area, well past the row of offices -- a place he had never visited, never needed to visit. The worst of the smoke and heat were emanating from this area, and he could see that several pieces of furniture, part of the carpet and some boxes were flaming. He could also see two figures, one of which was on the floor before the other. "Cascade Police! Get your hands up and get out of there... now!" he bellowed as well as he could, while coughing and choking on the smoke.  
  
The two figures turned to them, and in an instant, Blair could see it was Dennis Gorman and Grandmother. Gorman threw something at him, something that was on fire. Blair ducked back around the corner and the object burst on the wall behind him, spreading some sort of oil and immediately igniting the carpet and part of the drywall. Blair shied away from the flames and dodged back around the corner, firing above Gorman's head. "Right now, Gorman! Get away from her and get over here, with your hands up!"  
  
Instead of complying, Gorman tipped over a table, spreading more flames, and took off running towards the back of the room. Blair leapt into the room after him, but stopped his pursuit at the sight of Grandmother Raven, who was still huddled on the floor. "Christ! Grandmother, come on, we've got to get out of here!" He holstered his gun and put his arms around her, trying to get her to move.  
  
"Blair... _memim'en steqeiye'_ ," she murmured, coughing. Blair suddenly realized their precarious position, looking around at the roaring flames and smoke. There was no sign of Gorman, which meant there must be another way out.  
  
"Come on, Grandmother," Blair coughed. "Back here..." He tried to lift her, but she was a dead weight, and taller than he was. Calling on a reserve of strength he didn't know he had, Blair draped one of her arms around his neck and dragged her towards the back of the room, away from the flames that were getting worse. Through the smoke, an open door suddenly appeared before him, and he pulled her bodily towards it, managing to get through it before collapsing. They were in some sort of anteroom, a loading area, where there were several doors. One or more of them must lead to the outside -- but which?  
  
Blair managed to get her propped against the wall, but the smoke was worse here, and he could barely breathe, much less see. He pulled both of them down, next to the floor, and cast about with tear-filled eyes for the nearest exit. He could hear sirens in the distance. Where was Jim?  
  
"Blair..." Her pained wheeze brought him back to her instantly, and he realized she was bleeding -- he had blood on his hands, it was all over his shirt from where he had supported her.  
  
"Oh, my God," he rasped, looking at the blood pouring out of a wound on her shoulder. "What happened? He hurt you?"  
  
"Not important," she said, "no more..."  
  
The room was filled with smoke, heat, and the unbearable coppery stench of the blood from her wound. She was badly hurt, and Blair could tell by the pallor in her face that she was slipping away. Her lips were blue, her skin clammy. He held her gently but firmly, cradling her ample body close to his own, _willing_ her to live. He hated the thought that his friend, his teacher, would die in his arms, but it looked likely if something didn't happen _now_. Goddammit, _where was Jim?_  
  
She coughed, and he supported her head up a little further to help her breathe -- not that it helped, with all the smoke everywhere. "Easy, Grandmother, easy. Help is on the way; I can hear the sirens. I'll get you out; we'll get you out. You'll be fine." His eyes were streaming from the smoke and the heat, and he could barely speak for the pain in his throat and his heart.  
  
"Bullshit," she rasped, her face in a grimace of pain. "It's not going to happen, _memim'en steqeiye'_. I hear my ancestors calling me. My Pete..."  
  
"No," Blair insisted, swallowing back the fear he felt, even as he coughed through another wave of smoke. He heard pounding out on what was surely one of the doors to the outside. Which door? Could he leave her to find out? Would it help?  
  
"Yes," she insisted. "Listen. Here. Take this, keep this for me." One trembling hand pulled something out of her shirt -- it was that small, oddly-shaped stone, the power stone that Blair had seen and felt before, threaded on a leather thong. With a tug, she pulled the thong loose from her neck and pushed it into his hand.  
  
Blair felt it instantly -- a tingling in his palm where the stone met his flesh. Sensation shot up his arm, making him blink and gasp. "No..." he whispered.  "I can't..."  
  
"Yes," she said. "You've..." she broke off to cough, and this time, bright red blood bubbled at her lips. Jesus, Gorman must have stabbed her or something. Gasping, she tried to finish. "You must. It's yours. I pass it to you. No other."  
  
"Violet," he protested, hands reflexively tightening around both her and the stone.  
  
She shook her head, closing her eyes in pain. "No. Not her. My choice. Shaman to Shaman. It's up to you... to find... you're... you're... going to... _need_ it..." Her voice was fading, but she opened her eyes again and they were bright and hard as they stared into his. "As it was passed to me, I pass it to you," she whispered. Her voice reverberated in his head. "Do not abuse it, _memim'en steqeiye'_. I... walk -- walk the moon road... now. Love... you... Tell Violet... sorry..."  
  
With a start, Blair realized he had zoned on her rich, chocolate eyes... which were now blank.  
  
Suddenly, Jim burst in through one of the back doors, followed by EMTs and fire fighters. But it was too late.  
  
She was gone.  
  


* * *

  
Jim could hardly ever remember being so scared and frustrated as when Blair leapt out of the still-moving truck to run into the burning Center. He had followed as quickly as he could, but his partner had outstripped him, and by the time Jim got inside the building, Blair was nowhere in sight.  
  
Smoke and heat were billowing through the building and Jim had to stagger back outside to clear his eyes and throat enough to use his cell phone. After a hasty call for backup and fire engines, he tried to go back in, using his t-shirt as a filter over his nose and mouth in an attempt to breathe. He could hear Blair's frantic heartbeat somewhere towards the back of the building, where the fire appeared to be hottest -- and why weren't the automatic sprinklers coming on? -- but could not see him.  
  
When a shot rang out, it galvanized Jim. Following the sound down the hall, he was repelled by the heat and couldn't see Blair at all, although he could hear his heart and his voice, thank God. Retreating, he went outside again to check on the status of the backup and heard a door behind the Center slam -- the loading dock, he was sure of it, since it came from the back of the building where the access drive lead. He took off at a dead run and nearly bowled over a fleeing figure he hadn't even heard through his focused concentration on Blair's voice and heart. In the split second while they were face-to-face, Jim recognized Dennis Gorman's panicked visage, before the boy broke away and dashed into the night. Jim pulled his gun, demanded the boy stop and even fired after him, but by then the wailing of sirens and the roar of the flames had him so turned around he didn't know if he hit anything or not.  
  
Jim spared enough time to motion for the fire-fighters and EMTs before heading back around the building toward the loading dock. He was out of breath and panting by the time he got there, and neither of the two doors would open. They must have locked automatically behind Gorman as the boy made his escape, and Jim pounded on one of them, screaming Blair's name. He could hear Blair's frantic heart just inside, but the smoke streaming from the cracks around the door distracted him and kept him from focusing.  
  
Then the cavalry was there, in the form of three burly firemen from the 39th ladder company, armed with axes. One of the doors was unceremoniously knocked in, and the three men with Jim fell into what appeared to be a small internal loading dock or storage room. Huddled in a corner, rocking Grandmother Raven's body to him, was Blair.  
  
He was covered with blood, and that almost made Jim's heart freeze until he realized it wasn't _his_ blood. One of the firemen helped Jim lift the two of them -- Blair would not release Grandmother -- and got them out to the small truck dock just outside. The EMTs immediately gathered around, trying to take Grandmother from Blair, but Blair wouldn't let go, his eyes were anguished as he looked up to Jim, and his arms were rigidly locked around Grandmother's form.  
  
"Blair, Blair," Jim murmured, stroking soot-blacked hair off Blair's grimy forehead. "Let go, babe, let her get help..."  
  
"She's gone, she's gone, Jim," Blair moaned, rocking gently back and forth. "I couldn't save her; she wouldn't stay with me..."  
  
"Detective Sandburg?" One of the EMTs was an acquaintance, someone who had worked on either Blair or Jim or both many, many times over the past five years. "We need to get some oxygen into you, Detective," the man said gently. "Let me take her. I'll take good care of her."  
  
Jim would never forget that night, the night Grandmother died in Blair's arms; he would never forget the chaotic sounds or smells or sights. He would never forget the smell of Blair's tears as he closed Grandmother's eyes with one hand, or the fragile, feather-weight feel of her body as he helped the EMT lift it away from Blair's, or the taste of ashes and pain in his mouth as Blair turned grief-filled eyes to him.  
  
He stayed at Blair's side as the fire fighters brought the blaze to bay and killed it -- thankfully before it destroyed the Center. The EMTs gave Blair oxygen for a while to help clear out the smoke he had inhaled, and checked him over for injuries. Blair had a nasty burn on the back of his left calf -- probably from burning oil, on which the fire chief blamed the fire -- but he claimed he hadn't even felt it. Simon showed up just as the fire fighters were wrapping up, and found them huddled together on the grass of the Center's small backyard.  
  
"Are you two okay?" he asked gruffly, crouching before them.  
  
Jim nodded, but Blair merely sat there, the oxygen mask still on his face. Jim squeezed his shoulders as he filled Simon in.  
  
"What happened here?" Simon asked, his voice bewildered as he took in the chaos around the building.  
  
"I -- saw Dennis Gorman running away," Jim said slowly. "I wasn't able to stop him, but I did fire after him as he took off. His car is still in the lot, so he'd be on foot."  
  
"I'll put out an APB," Simon said, reaching for his cell. "You have a description for me?"  
  
Jim supplied it, then looked down at Blair. "I don't know what happened inside..."  
  
"He killed her," Blair suddenly said, his voice harsh behind the mask. Ripping it off his face, he looked up to Jim and Simon, his face frighteningly blank. "I got inside and saw the two of them. The fire had already started. He threw something at me -- I think it must have been the lamp, filled with oil and already burning -- then overturned the table as I came after him. Grandmother --" He paused to sob harshly and to rub his grimy hands over his face, then took a deep breath and continued-- "Grandmother was on the floor where he had been. I tried to get her up but she was weak. I knew there had to be another way out after Gorman disappeared towards the back, so I dragged her there. That's when I saw the blood -- he'd stabbed her, I think."  
  
Simon inhaled sharply and Jim's arm around Blair tightened. "There was -- there was blood everywhere, and she was fading fast. By... by the time Jim got there, she was gone. She was... " Blair trailed off, his eyes going to the sheet-covered body the EMTs hadn't moved yet. After a moment of silence, Blair added, "Oh, God... Violet. We need to get to Violet... Jim..."  
  
"Sandburg, stop," Simon interjected softly. "I'll call Daryl and explain the situation to him, get him to go over there. You can't go see her looking like that."  
  
"Gorman could be after her too, Simon," Blair said, glancing down at his blood- and soot-covered clothes. "She needs protection."  
  
"She'll have it -- I guarantee it. Go home, Blair. Take him home, Jim." Simon rested one big hand on Blair's shoulder and squeezed briefly before rising and pulling his cell phone out again.  
  
"Come on, Chief," Jim said sadly. "Let's go home and get you cleaned up."  
  


* * *

  
Neither man spoke during the trip home, though Jim took Blair's hand shortly after they climbed into the truck, and Blair was grateful for the contact. Arriving at the loft, Jim stopped Blair as they entered, and began gently stripping him of his ruined clothing, being careful of the wrapped burn on his leg. That's when he discovered what Blair still held, clenched tightly in one hand.  
  
"What -- omigod," Jim inhaled as he saw the thong and the stone.  
  
Blair nodded soberly. "She -- she gave it to me; she made me take it. Before..."  
  
Jim swallowed heavily, and Blair could see his pain etched on his face. Grandmother had meant almost as much to Jim as she had to Blair -- more, perhaps, to the man who had lost so many loved ones in his life. Blair reached up and touched Jim's face, struggling to hold back his own tears. "Get in the shower, Sandburg," Jim said roughly. "Don't worry about the bandage; I'll just change it when you get out."  
  
Blair nodded and trudged through the loft to the bathroom, noting without caring the remnants of their aborted dinner from Thai Palace. Behind him, he heard Jim gather up his soiled clothing and carry it to the kitchen to trash it. Another shirt and pair of jeans down the drain, he thought, as he turned the water on for a shower. Numb, he adjusted the heat, shucked out of his boxers and climbed over the edge of the tub, hissing when the hot spray soaked through the bandage. The burn hadn't hurt at all until that moment, but now it throbbed in time with his heartbeat.  
  
Disregarding the pain, Blair simply stood under the shower and let the water wash the blood and soot from his body, wishing it could also take his heartache. After a while, the shower curtain rustled and he turned to see Jim climb in with him. Without a sound, Blair moved into his arms, giving and taking what comfort they could find. Jim's muscles were tight and hard with the control he was exerting, but Blair understood this defense mechanism, and let it pass without comment.  
  
Before the water could cool, they washed each other, Jim taking particular care of Blair's wound, then climbed out and dried themselves. Jim re-treated and bandaged Blair's leg, after helping him tie the thong around his neck so that the stone rested on Blair's chest. Finally, they both walked, naked, through the apartment, up the stairs to their bed. Somehow, they managed to get clean boxers on, and Blair drew on a tank top as well, feeling unaccountably cold.  
  
Under the covers of their bed, Jim pulled Blair to him, and Blair let himself be comforted for the moment, resting his head on that great chest, hearing the powerful heart beat beneath his ear. "Simon's got an APB out on Gorman, and he's got a unit at -- at the house," Jim murmured. Blair could hear the words echo in his chest. "Daryl is with Violet. We'll go over in the morning, after we finish the paperwork."  
  
"He called?" Blair murmured. His throat still felt tender from the smoke and emotion of the night.  
  
"Yeah. Wanted to make sure we got home okay."  
  
"Mother hen." Blair suddenly had to swallow a lump in his throat that felt huge and hot. But he could feel the minute tremors in Jim's body that signaled his extreme distress, and knew he needed to stay focused, stay present.  
  
Jim needed him.  
  
"I'm sorry," Blair finally rasped out. "I tried... tried to stop him, tried to make her stay..."  
  
"Chief..." Jim's voice was raw.  
  
"...She said, said she loved me. Us. Said she was sorry. Oh, God, Jim..."  
  
"Stop it, stop it, Chief," Jim said, one hand on Blair's head as he trembled in suppressed pain. "It's not your fault. It's not."  
  
"I kept waiting, wondering where you were, when you were coming," Blair went on, relentless now that the dam had broken. "Waiting for you to charge in and fix everything. But it wouldn't have mattered, would it? She'd still... still be..."  
  
They lay quietly for a while, holding each other tightly, until Jim choked out, "Blair..."  
  
"God, Jim," Blair muttered, rolling over and bringing his Sentinel with him. Jim buried his head in Blair's neck, wrapped his arms around Blair's waist and shook, sobbing silently with great huge gulps of air. Blair lay still, holding Jim as tightly as Jim held him, and let his own tears silently pour down his face into his hair, wetting his pillow.  
  


* * *

  
Morning came far too early.  
  
Neither man slept well, waking frequently with nightmares and reaching for the other, needing the comfort of physical touch. By seven, they were dressed and had choked down some food they didn't want but knew they had to eat, and were on their way to the station.  
  
It was Saturday, so thankfully the bullpen was mostly empty. They worked diligently and quickly, filling out the forms necessary for the discharge of firearms, the reports for the destruction of property, and the witness reports on the death of Mrs. Violet Williams. Simon came in shortly after nine, stopped when he saw them, then merely nodded and went into his office. When the last of the paperwork had been spat out of the printer, Jim took it to him, knocking softly on his door and sticking his head inside.  
  
"You ready for these?" Jim asked him softly.  
  
Simon nodded and motioned with his hand. "Yeah, sure, get the kid, come on in here."  
  
Blair followed Jim into the room, saying, "'The kid' is thirty years old, Simon." But Jim could tell his heart wasn't in his teasing.  
  
Simon grunted, trying to smile and not succeeding very well. It looked to Jim like it had been a rough night for him as well. He took the reports from Jim and Blair, then motioned them to his coffee maker, where a hazelnut roast was simmering. "Got the report from Dan," he said as they sat at the table with their coffee cups.  
  
Jim swallowed. "That was fast," he said, carefully not looking at Blair.  
  
"Yeah, well, he owed me one," Simon replied gruffly. "The wound was a stab wound, but it wasn't sufficient to cause death. Her -- her heart did that. That and the cancer."  
  
Both Jim and Blair sat up straight. "Cancer?" Blair whispered.  
  
"Yeah, advanced lymphatic cancer." Simon looked bleak. "I spoke with Violet's parents, Josh and Sarah, late last night. She'd only told Sarah, apparently; it was new, but spreading fast."  
  
"She hadn't been eating," Jim muttered. "And she -- she smelled off. Not enough to comment... I just couldn't put my finger on it."  
  
"Daryl's still with Violet -- they're staying at her house. Sarah wanted her to come back to their house, but Violet wouldn't go," Simon told them. "She's taking it pretty well, all things considered. But it's hard to say."  
  
"You've still got a guard on her, right?" Jim asked, intent.  
  
"Yeah. And before you ask, no, there's no sign of Gorman. We've got a call in to Seattle, trying to find his father."  
  
Jim rubbed his head wearily and looked over at Blair, who sat still, hanging his head. Jim could almost see the waves of pain emanating from his partner, and wished he could alleviate them. "We should get out of here, go over to see Violet. You want us to send Daryl home?"  
  
"If he'll come," Simon said, weary. "Those two have gotten very close. On the one hand, I'm glad, because I like Violet. On the other, I'm not all that eager to be a grandpa yet."  
  
"I don't think you have much to worry about there," Blair said, sighing as he stood. "They're both pretty level-headed kids. Violet especially."  
  
"Yeah, I know," Simon replied. He looked between them sharply. "You two okay?"  
  
Jim stood as well, putting his hand on the back of Blair's neck. "Yeah," he replied for the two of them, "we're okay. But we'll be better once Gorman is off the streets."  
  
"It won't be long," Simon promised. "Go on, and give my best to Violet."  
  
"Yes, sir," Jim replied, ushering Blair ahead of him as they left Simon's office.  
  
It was a beautiful day, which, to Jim, seemed vaguely blasphemous. It should be raining -- it should be stormy and cold and miserably dark -- and as depressed as he felt. Instead, the sky was blue and the sun was shining through puffy white clouds that looked so fucking happy and bright that he just wanted to scream. Instead, he clenched his jaw and tried to ignore it.  
  
They were quiet in the truck on the way over from the station to the house, but as they pulled up outside, Blair reached over and stroked Jim's face. "I know, I know," he murmured. "But destroying your jaw isn't going to help. Try to relax, babe."  
  
Jim looked at Blair in despair. "I don't know if I can do this, Blair," he whispered.  
  
"Yes, you can," Blair replied steadily. "I know you can. I know _we_ can. As long as we're together."  
  
After a minute of staring at each other, Jim reached out and Blair flowed into his arms, kissing him gently, deeply. They clung together for a long moment, then moved apart to get out of the truck.  
  
How was it possible that the house looked just the same?  
  
Daryl met them at the door, accompanied by Rafe, who apparently had the guard duty. Jim could see the remains of a card game in the living room and some pizza boxes neatly stacked next to the coffee table. Blair hugged Daryl, who was stiff for a moment, then sagged into the embrace, returning it. "You doing okay, man?" Blair murmured to him, and Daryl nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright.  
  
Jim shook Rafe's hand and satisfied himself with squeezing Daryl's shoulder. "Where's..." he stopped and cleared his throat. "Where's Violet?"  
  
"She's in her room. C'mon." Daryl led the way down the hall and tapped at a door that was slightly open. "Vio? It's Jim and Blair."  
  
"Oh, okay," her voice floated out. The three men entered her room, and Daryl immediately crossed to sit next to her on the bed. She had been crying and her eyes were red, but her face was composed. Morrie lay curled up in a heap on one of her pillows.  
  
Blair immediately sat down on her other side, and Violet wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his shoulder. Jim snagged the chair to her desk and pulled it over, sitting backwards on it, within reaching distance of all three. He met Daryl's anguished eyes and shook his head gently.  
  
After a moment, Violet straightened, and then touched Blair's neck. "So, that's what happened to it," she murmured, and Blair flushed.  
  
"I told her -- I thought it should go to you," he stammered, but Violet held a hand to his mouth.  
  
"It was hers to bestow, Blair," she said softly. "I have other things at my disposal. And you're going to need it."  
  
"That's what she said," Blair replied, frowning. "I don't..."  
  
A soft chirr interrupted him -- Morrie, who had squirmed into his lap and was looking up at him with liquid eyes. "Hi, Morrie," Blair said, holding out his hand to her. Morrie rubbed her head against Blair's hand for a moment, then turned to look directly at Jim before slowly climbing Blair's chest and crawling under his shirt via his collar. Blair shivered as her fur tickled him, but didn't try to stop her.  
  
"I thought I almost lost her last night too," Violet said sadly. "She just went nuts. Blair, no one will tell me what happened. Will you tell me what happened?"  
  
Blair shifted and pulled at his shirt as the lump of Morrie squirmed into a comfortable position between his outer shirt and his t-shirt, then gave Jim an anguished look. Jim swallowed heavily. "Uh, sweetheart, Blair was there..." he said, hesitantly. "Gr-- Grandmother -- well, she, she died in his arms."  
  
Violet nodded and Jim could hear her swallow as well. "I -- I kind of knew that, I knew she was with you," Violet replied. "But I don't know what happened, or why there's been a cop here since it happened, or any of it. What's happening?"  
  
Checking with Jim, who nodded slightly, Blair said, "It's, well..." he took a deep breath and continued. "Dennis Gorman is wanted in conjunction with -- with what happened last night. The fire and all of it. There's an APB out for him, and, well, we're worried that he might come here."  
  
Violet nodded, not at all surprised by his words. "It was Dennis, then; Dennis all along," she said softly, sadly. "I kind of thought so." Daryl put his arm around her and she leaned into his side. "I was hoping it wasn't."  
  
"What do you mean, Violet?" Jim asked her softly.  
  
"It was a compulsion last night, I recognize it now," she explained, her voice drained. "I think he must have been after me, because I had a compulsion to go to the Center. But Grandmother insisted on coming with me, and the compulsion was transferred to her." She sighed and one tear slowly rolled down her cheek.  
  
Jim had his mouth open, was about to ask for clarification when his cell phone rang. Grimacing, he got up and left the room to answer, recognizing Simon's number on the display. From behind him, he could hear Blair and Violet still talking softly. "Ellison."  
  
"Jim, Simon. We've had a break and we've got a problem with the Gorman case," Simon said. "We got a tip that the kid has been spotted over by some girl's house, over on Crescent Avenue."  
  
"I'm on it," Jim said, tensing.  
  
"You bring Rafe with you," Simon said sharply, "and leave Sandburg there. One of you being personally involved in this is sufficient."  
  
"Yes, sir," Jim replied shortly.  
  
"There's more though... the kid's father is here and making a terrible stink. Jim, if this is the Gorman kid, we need to get him in here now."  
  
"Right. Call Rafe on his cell and give him the address -- we'll take the truck and leave his car here for Sandburg. I'm on my way, Simon," Jim said, turning the phone off. He stuck his head into Violet's room. "Chief, we've got a lead on Gorman. Simon wants me there with Rafe -- says one of us personally involved is enough -- can you stay here and watch the kids?"  
  
"Yeah, sure," Blair replied, frowning at Jim. "What kind of lead?"  
  
"Not sure yet," Jim hedged. "Just a possible sighting. I need to go look. You've got your cell and your piece, right?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm set, go on, get out of here, and be careful," Blair said.  
  
"Be back as soon as I can," Jim said, meeting Blair's eyes briefly.  
  


* * *

  
Morrie was a warm, vibrating lump under his shirt and around his neck, making Blair itch slightly. But he wouldn't disturb her; he could almost feel the distress rolling off her in waves. So he moved carefully, gently, as he helped Daryl clean up the living room and straighten up the kitchen. They talked in a desultory fashion about anything except what had occurred the night before, trying to pretend that all was well.  
  
Blair was looking through the kitchen for food to put together as a late lunch -- not that anyone felt hungry, but he knew they should all eat -- when Morrie suddenly stiffened. Her little pointed nose poked out between two buttons on his shirt and wiggled frantically, and she suddenly dug her hind claws into his collarbone, right through his t-shirt. "Ow! Morrie, quit that," Blair admonished her gently. She ignored him, but stiffened further. Movement out the rear kitchen window caught Blair's eye, and he pulled back the swag curtain to look closer.  
  
There was a little gardening shed in the far corner of Grandmother's garden -- which was beginning to look spectacular for springtime. The shed was always padlocked unless someone was working on the yard -- but the door now appeared open.  
  
And the lock looked as though it had been broken. Morrie abruptly began hissing.  
  
The roaring that had been in Blair's head the evening before came back full bore, and it seemed as though his eyes saw black. On automatic pilot, he drew his gun from the shoulder holster and snapped off the safety even as he turned to Daryl. "Daryl, call your father and Jim. Tell them we have a prowler -- and then get Violet and lock yourselves in her room."  
  
"No way, Blair!" Daryl protested, his eyes wide. "I'm going with--"  
  
"NOW, Daryl," Blair snapped, gratified to see the teenager step back in surprise at his words. "Don't argue, just do it." Not waiting for a reply, Blair turned and nearly ran for the side door, making sure to lock it behind him as he stepped out.  
  
The puffy clouds of earlier had given way to larger, darker clouds, which scudded over the face of the sun at random. The backyard was partially shaded by two huge pin oaks, but most of it was open, alternating bright and dim as the clouds covered the sun. Blair paused at the side of the house, out of view of the shed, and contemplated his options. The shed had no windows, but the door faced the house and was open slightly. If he approached it from the right side, though, he would be out-of-sight of anyone looking through the door. All he could hope was that the shed was well-constructed and there were no peep-holes. He had no way of knowing if Gorman was armed or not.  
  
He dashed for the tree on the left, taking cover behind it briefly. There was no movement from the shed. Quickly, quietly, he ran for the side of the small building, trying to be careful of Grandmother's plants, but also trying to be silent. He made the side of the building with no problem, and listened, once again wishing for Jim's Sentinel hearing.  
  
After a moment, he heard it; harsh breathing. There was definitely someone inside.  
  
Morrie hissed again.  
  


* * *

  
Simon met Jim and Rafe at the home of Dennis Gorman's classmate, Gail Dunhaven. It didn't take long for them to determine that she had indeed seen Gorman. They met her in the living room, her mother and father flanking her.  
  
"I almost thought I dreamed it," she told them, her hands twisting in her lap. "It was early this morning, almost sunup. I don't usually get up until about ten or eleven on Saturdays, but this morning, I heard a scraping at my window."  
  
"Had Mr. Gorman ever tried to contact you this way before, Miss Dunhaven?" Jim asked gently.  
  
She looked guiltily between her parents before she admitted, "Yeah. But not early, usually late. I -- I'm a night owl, and I like staying up late."  
  
Jim didn't miss the disapproving glance between the parents and the young lady, but let it go. "Did you actually see Dennis Gorman out your window this morning, Miss Dunhaven?" he asked her.  
  
"Well, sort of," she hedged. "I did look, finally, when the scraping and tapping kept up, you know? And it looked like there was paint on my window. I thought -- well, I thought Dennis had tried to do something nasty on my window, you know, paint something awful. He and I broke up last week, and he was kinda rotten about the whole thing."  
  
"You'd been dating? For how long?" Simon asked her.  
  
"He broke up with me just before our two week anniversary," she said, her mouth turning down. "I mean, he was new to town, and I had been nice to him, and it was just so, you know, rude that he broke up... Anyways. I was real mad at him, so when I saw it was him, and saw the paint, I -- well, I kinda like um..."  
  
"Go ahead, Gail," her mother said, her mouth set in a straight line. Jim suspected that this high-schooler would be in trouble, regardless of what she said, for quite some time.  
  
"Well, I flipped him off," the girl said, all in a rush, her face screwed up in a grimace. "And I just closed my curtains and went back to sleep, you know? But this morning, when I got up and opened my curtains back up, I saw it wasn't paint. And that's when Mom called you guys."  
  
"It looks like blood to me," Mrs. Dunhaven said. "I'm a dentist, and I've seen blood stains before. I was rather upset when Gail told me what had happened."  
  
"Can you show us?" Jim asked, and they all trooped outside to look at Gail Dunhaven's bedroom window. There were indeed smeared red marks on her window, some of which looked like finger or partial hand-prints. Jim and Rafe looked closely, and Jim scraped a sample of the dried substance into a baggie Simon handed him. The three policemen looked at it carefully, and Jim looked at Simon, nodding.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Dunhaven, Miss Dunhaven," Simon said, directing them back around the house. "You've helped us in this investigation. My two detectives need to look at the soil around the window..." Simon moved the family off and let Jim and Rafe do a more detailed search of the area.  
  
"It's blood, isn't it?" Rafe asked Jim. "It looks too much like it not to be."  
  
"Yeah, I think so," Jim agreed. "We need Forensics down here, to dust this for prints, and to get a cast of that shoeprint there," he added, pointing to the sneaker-print under the window. "It could be one of the Dunhavens, but I kind of doubt it."  
  
"You think it's Gorman?"  
  
"Yeah, I do," Jim said, "and I think maybe I winged him last night."  
  
They worked the yard carefully, looking for more clues, until Jim's cell phone rang and Simon came running around the corner of the house, yelling for them.  
  


* * *

  
Blair leaned up against the shed wall, debating with himself. He knew there was _someone_ inside the shed, and every instinct he had told him it was Gorman. But what his next move should be he had no clue.  
  
His inner-cop said, wait for backup, stay where you are, Jim and Simon will be here soon since Daryl called them. His inner-Jim, however, told him to fuck that, just kick in the door and go in blazing. It was only a kid, after all, and chances were good he wasn't even armed -- not with a gun, anyway. His inner-shaman was still seeing red and wanted merely to burn down the shed, with Gorman in it.  
  
Morrie chose his moment of indecisiveness to stick her head out and hiss again, and Blair shushed her silently, pushing her head back into his shirt. He got bitten for his effort, but not badly. Why he hadn't left her in the house, he couldn't figure...  
  
There was a soft 'clunk' from inside the shed and a soft, muttered sound -- half a curse and half a sob. That decided it for Blair, who decided to go with his inner-Blair and just get it over with. Carefully, he reached around the corner of the tiny building and pushed the door open until it bounced against the inner wall. Standing well clear of it, he called around the corner, "Cascade police! Come out _now_ with your hands up!"  
  
The harsh breathing suddenly stopped and something crashed inside. Jumping clear of the corner, Blair fell into a crouch, his gun held steady in both hands, ready to aim at the inside of the shed. "I said out, _NOW_ ," he yelled.  
  
From the dimness of the shed, a figure slowly shuffled out. One hand was holding the opposite shoulder, and the arm of that shoulder hung limp. "Hands up!" Blair yelled again, and the figure stopped.  
  
"I -- I can't," he said, and collapsed against the door jamb. That's when Blair recognized the figure as Dennis Gorman, and saw the blood on his shoulder. The same shoulder that had been bleeding on Grandmother.  
  
"Goddammit," Blair swore, straightening. He kept his gun ready, approaching cautiously. "Turn around, face against the wall here. Go on. Spread your legs." Blair kicked the boy's legs out so that he was leaning face-first against the outer wall of the shed next to the door. "Put your good hand up on the wall. Higher."  
  
Dennis Gorman looked much the worse for wear. He was muddy, bloody and scraped. His pants and shirt were torn and his face was streaked with dirt and tears. He managed to get his good hand up high on the wall, then sobbed, "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to hurt her or anything, honest. I didn't mean to!"  
  
Blair shook with the effort of holding in his rage. "Dennis Gorman, you are under arrest for suspicion of arson in the destruction of the Cascade Native American Resource Center and the murder of Mrs. Violet Williams," he ground out. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an --"  
  
While talking, Blair lowered his gun and reached for his handcuffs, which is when Morrie suddenly tensed, hissed and tried to shoot out of his shirt at Gorman, who turned his head enough to see her and shrieked in fear, pressing himself back into the wall.  
  
" _Morrie_!" Blair yelled, dropping the cuffs and his gun as he grabbed for the ferret. Her eyes were nearly glowing red and her teeth were exposed in a snarl of pure hatred. Blair wrestled her away from his shirt then held her out, forcing her to look at him. Rather than the lazy, boneless droop she usually affected, she was ramrod stiff, and still hissing. "Stop that! That is _not_ what we want here! Listen to me!" He shook the ferret, trying to get her to listen, completely unaware of the ridiculousness of trying to reason with the animal. "Stop it. _Stop it!_ That is _not_ what Grandmother would want. It's not what _I_ want. It's not, Moriarity."  
  
Blair paused, realizing only then that he was convincing himself as much as he was convincing Morrie. He shook her again, less firmly, and repeated, "Morrie, stop it. Everything will be all right. Trust me."  
  
The little golden ferret slowly stopped hissing and twisting in Blair's hands as his voice got through to her. She chirred slightly, almost experimentally, and Blair let go of her with one hand long enough to knuckle her head. "It's going to be all right, Morrie. Everything's going to be fine."  
  
He tucked her back into his shirt and she wound herself around his neck, still hissing slightly at Gorman, who still stood trembling against the wall. Blair bent and picked up his gun, which he holstered, and his cuffs, which he began to use on Gorman, far more gently than he would have a few minutes before. "You have the right to remain silent," he repeated as he cuffed the boy with his hands behind his back. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you at no charge. Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?"  
  
"Y-yes," Gorman sobbed, wincing as his injured shoulder was carefully tugged. "I understand, please, keep it away from me, please..."  
  
"Morrie won't hurt you, I promise," Blair said gently, pulling the boy away from the wall as he heard sirens and cars out in front of the house. "Come on, we need to get you to a hospital and then to the station."  
  
Jim and Simon came pelting around the corner of the house only to stop dead at the sight of Blair leading a cuffed Dennis Gorman away from the shed. "Sandburg, are you all right?" Jim demanded, breathless.  
  
"I'm fine, Jim. Rafe, I've read him his rights, he needs medical attention now. Please take him before I do something I'll regret?" Blair's voice was light but he knew his eyes must have been reflecting his roiling emotions. Rafe nodded shortly and took over, leading the boy away.  
  
"Jesus, Sandburg, what the hell happened here? And what's that in your shirt?" Simon demanded. Morrie had chosen that moment to peek out of Blair's shirt collar. With a grimace, Jim reached out to take her, only to get bitten.  
  
"Stop that Morrie; you're driving me crazy, do you know that?" Blair said, pulling the animal out of his shirt. "You are going back in the house where you're staying." Turning to Jim and Simon, beginning to walk back to the house, Blair continued. "Gorman was hiding in the shed. I noticed movement and told Daryl to call you, which I guess he did. I then went out and took custody of Gorman. I read him his rights, cuffed him and handed him off to Detective Rafe. Any other questions?"  
  
"Without backup," Simon growled, and Morrie chirred at him, as if to explain _she_ was with Blair the whole time.  
  
Blair shrugged. "Sorry, Captain," he said wearily.  
  
"Dear God in Heaven, why did you give me _two_ of them?" Simon asked, rolling his eyes heavenward.  
  
Nobody laughed.  
  


* * *

  
Gorman's shoulder wound was merely a crease -- superficial and ugly, but it didn't even require stitches. Taken to Cascade General, he was cleaned and bandaged and escorted back to the station, looking vastly improved. By the time he was formally booked and processed, Jim, Blair and Simon had returned to the station -- without Morrie -- and were waiting in interrogation room three. As the teenager was brought into the room, Simon was explaining to his detectives that Gorman's father was still in the station, being given the run-around, but it couldn't last much longer.  
  
Dennis Gorman's face drained of all color at the mention of his father, and he collapsed into his chair. "I don't got to talk to him, do I?" he asked, his voice panicked. Jim frowned, looking from the boy to Blair and Simon. "Please, you said I got rights, I'm eighteen, I can do this by myself, right? Please?"  
  
Blair crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at the kid and Simon just looked bewildered. With a sigh, Jim leaned down on the table into Gorman's face. To his credit, the boy didn't back down, but he didn't lose the panicked look in his eyes either. "Yeah, you're eighteen," Jim said, not trying for menacing but knowing he probably was anyway, "but think for a minute, kid. You're facing some pretty heavy-duty charges here. I would think you would want all the help you can get."  
  
"Not, my father. Please," Gorman pleaded with Jim, then looked to Blair and Simon. "He's... he's why, I mean, he'll... please. Not him."  
  
This was a cold-blooded killer? Jim didn't think so. He'd seen a lot of suspects in his lifetime, both before and after the senses came on-line. Everything he saw and heard here told him this boy was scared out of his mind, and incapable of planning anything more drastic than tying his shoes. Gone was the self-important, vaguely menacing twit he had seen at the dance; this version of Dennis Gorman, he suspected, was closer to the real person.  
  
"Tell me what happened," Jim said, flipping the chair opposite Gorman around and settling on it backwards. "Tell me all of it."  
  
Gorman licked his lips nervously and looked up at Blair again, then back to Jim. "If I tell you, will you leave my father out of it?"  
  
"We can't promise anything, Mr. Gorman," Jim said, making a long arm and pulling the tape recorder -- which had been running all along -- closer. "But if you really don't want your father here, we'll do our best to keep him out. Now, do you want to talk to a lawyer, or do you want to tell me what happened?"  
  
"I want to tell you what happened," Dennis Gorman said, his voice firm, though his hands were shaking badly.  
  
"All right, go ahead," Jim prompted, his voice neutral.  
  
"I -- I tried to put a compulsion on Violet Halperin," Dennis said, swallowing. "I wanted her to come to the Center, that evening, alone. She -- she wouldn't come without the compulsion, I knew that."  
  
Ignoring the 'compulsion' thing for the moment, Jim focused on the other part. "Why did you want to see Miss Halperin?" he asked.  
  
Dennis looked down at his hands; he looked like he wanted to cry. "I -- I need power -- I need the protection of power and she's got power, but she's only a girl! I thought -- I thought I could take her power, or at least some of it."  
  
"How were you planning on doing that?" Jim asked, his voice neutral, ignoring the fury he could feel rolling off Blair, who was standing behind him.  
  
"A ceremony," Dennis replied. "I researched it. I -- I needed certain things, like the drum and the bentbox..."  
  
"Are you admitting to the theft of the Salishan artifacts from the Center last week?" Jim asked carefully.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I thought you knew... Yeah. I did that. I needed them, I wasn't planning on damaging them or anything, really. I just needed them for the ceremony. So I took Father's keys, and -- and --"  
  
"Okay, tell me about this ceremony," Jim asked, when it became evident Dennis wouldn't -- or couldn't -- continue.  
  
"It -- it requires a blood token," Dennis said quietly, almost desperately. "I needed a few drops of blood from the -- from the person with the power. I needed it so I could go into the spirit realm, so that her power would call a powerful spirit guide to me. Her blood, burning." He bit his lip and looked almost accusingly at Jim. "But it wasn't Violet that came to the compulsion, it was her grandmother!" he said, his voice climbing, becoming frantic. "I didn't want her, I -- I wanted Violet! But that old lady came, and she tried to stop me taking the power, and dammit, it was _mine_ to take! _I_ should have had the power, not some dumb old woman or useless girl!"  
  
His face red from anger and frustration, Dennis, pounded his good hand on the table before him. "I _needed_ that power! Why... why wouldn't she..." With a sob, he suddenly deflated and hung his head. Jim could smell his tears. "I tried to get her hand, to take the blood, but she fought me, and the horn knife went into her shoulder, and there was blood everywhere. Then the lamp fell, and some of the oil got on the furniture, and it started to burn. I -- I got scared. And... and then... then _he_ showed up," Dennis glanced up at Blair, but quailed away from his anger. "And he was burning with power, and I thought... for a minute, I thought he was Father. I panicked, I guess."  
  
"So the reason you threw the lamp at me, was you thought I was your father?" Blair asked, his voice incredulous.  
  
"Yeah, I guess, I don't know, I just thought..." Dennis subsided into indistinct mumbles.  
  
"I'm turning off the tape now, Mr. Gorman," Jim said softly, suiting his actions to his words. He stood and looked at Simon and Blair, cocking his head to the door. "We'll be right back," he promised, after checking to make sure Gorman's ankle was securely cuffed to the table leg.  
  
The three men stepped into the hallway, closing the door of the interrogation room behind them. "What the hell was all that about?" Simon hissed, glaring at Jim and Blair. "That kid is no more a killer than Daryl is."  
  
"We've got him solid for B and E, reckless endangerment, destruction of property and possible manslaughter," Blair said coldly, and Jim whipped his head around to stare at his partner. "I say we just go ahead and process him -- as an adult. He wants to be treated like a big boy, then fine. Let him have fun up at Starkeville."  
  
"Blair..." Jim said, aware that Simon was gaping at Blair as much as he was. "You don't..."  
  
A bellow from down the hall interrupted him and made all three men turn. John Gorman was storming down the hall, his face black with anger. " _YOU_!" he bellowed, pointing at Jim. "I remember you! Where's my boy?"  
  
Simon stepped forward, and Jim was glad to let him. "Mr. Gorman, your son is in custody and has expressed a wish not to see you," he said coldly. "Since he is legally an adult, we must--"  
  
"Get out of my way, you goddamned nigger!" Gorman yelled. Simon's eyes widened in shock and his face hardened even more. Jim realized he had never seen Simon truly angry until that moment, and it actually unnerved him.  
  
"All of you, out of my way!" Gorman made a motion with his hands, and suddenly Jim found himself three feet from where he had been, with no knowledge of how he'd gotten there. He watched, amazed, as Gorman slammed open the door to the interrogation room and stormed inside. Dennis Gorman's scream galvanized him finally, and he leapt to protect his prisoner.  
  
But, suddenly, Blair -- several inches shorter and at least thirty pounds lighter than Gorman -- was there, standing between a cowering Dennis Gorman and his furious father.  
  
"Stop. You're not allowed here."  
  
Jim had never heard that tone of voice from Blair, and as much as he was scared by Simon's anger, this frightened him more.  
  
"I said get out of my way, you miserable half-breed," Gorman snarled, once again gesturing. Dennis was on the floor, cowering as far away from his father as his ankle restraint would let him, whimpering.  
  
Gorman advanced on Blair but Blair held his ground, not moving. "That won't work here, with me, Gorman," Blair said. "I'm not sure what game you think you're playing, but here, _I_ rule. Get out."  
  
"That," Gorman indicated his son, "is _my_ son. My property. Mine! You can't stop me from taking him." He seemed to be caught between frustration and confusion that Blair wasn't reacting to him, but came no closer.  
  
"That's what you think. Get. Out." Blair's eyes almost seemed to glow, and his voice had a tonal quality that made Jim's ears hurt. "Don't make me have to arrest you -- and don't think that I can't -- or won't. You don't have a prayer against me, _noeqkikha sheli_."  
  
"How dare you," Gorman snarled, raising his hands.  
  
Simon moved to go into the room, to go help Blair, but Jim stopped him with a hand on his chest. "Don't, Simon," he murmured.  
  
"Jim--!" Simon hissed, his face incredulous.  
  
"Don't." Jim looked at Simon. "This is one of those things you don't like to think about, sir," he added quickly. "Blair can handle him. He's got help."  
  
Simon looked like he wanted to argue, but a sudden snarl from inside the room made his face blanch. It wasn't a human snarl. Jim looked and wasn't surprised to see both the black jaguar and the wolf flanking Blair, whose hair was standing away from his head as if he were in a static electricity field, and whose eyes were definitely glowing.  
  
"Third time's the charm, Gorman -- I won't say it again," Blair said, his voice almost conversational. "Do you really want to challenge me here, in my place of power? Get out. _Now_."  
  
Jim could see Gorman literally trembling with rage as he looked from Blair to his son and back again, then down at the spirit animals who looked more than willing to tear his throat out. His jaw working, he finally spat out, "This isn't over. I name you _sh'emein_. We will meet again." With a last contemptuous look at his son, he turned on his heel and strode out, completely ignoring the crowd that had gathered at the display.  
  
Jim stood still, tracking the man with his hearing, not relaxing until he was sure Gorman had left the building. Then he turned and helped Simon disperse the crowd, getting everyone's attention off the interrogation room before returning to it. Blair was still standing where he had been, looking ordinary once again. There was no longer any sign of the spirit guides.  
  
Cautiously, Jim approached Blair, waiting until Blair's eyes focused on him to speak, and even then, he had to clear his throat first. "Gorman's gone," he murmured.  
  
"I know," Blair replied, and Jim gave silent thanks that Blair's voice was once again normal. Blair turned and regarded Dennis Gorman, who was still huddled on the floor, weeping. "Dennis. Get up, Dennis, he's gone."  
  
Slowly, Dennis Gorman unwound himself and let Jim help him back to his chair. There were a few spots of fresh blood on his bandage, but it didn't look bad. Simon pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to the boy, who wiped his face and blew his nose.  
  
"How long has he been beating you, Dennis?" Blair asked suddenly, and Dennis winced, hiding his head. "It's all right, I can protect you from him, and here, you're safe. How long?" Blair's voice was neither hard nor gentle, but simply _there_ , asking for information impersonally.  
  
Without looking up, Dennis answered, his voice hitching. "Since... since mom died," he said. "I -- I was -- was eight." He finally turned anguished, haunted eyes to Blair. "He -- he wanted me to -- to be a shaman, like -- like him. But -- but I failed. On my vision quest. I -- failed."  
  
Blair looked down into Dennis's eyes for a long time as the boy slowly calmed. Finally, he nodded, turned and left the room. Jim and Simon followed him, perplexed, and found him leaning against the wall opposite the door to the interrogation room. Jim reached out and gently brushed Blair's cheek with the back of his hand, but Blair didn't move, except to blink and swallow. "I almost blew it, didn't I?" Jim heard him murmur, so softly only a Sentinel could have picked it up.  
  
After a moment, Blair turned to Simon. "I think Sweeney from the P.D.'s office would be a good choice to defend him and maybe get him a plea, don't you, sir?"  
  
Simon took a deep breath, held it for a moment and then released it in a gush. "Yeah, Blair, I do," he said softly. "I'll get the ball rolling."  
  
"Okay. I'll call the D.A.'s office and see about getting him sequestered, since he's too old for juvy hall." Blair turned and walked steadily down the hall towards the bullpen, and Simon turned towards Jim.  
  
"What the hell just happened here, Jim?" Simon asked him plaintively.  
  
"Damned if I know, sir," Jim replied sadly. "But I have an awful feeling that I'm going to find out." He turned and quirked a smile at Simon. "Be glad you won't have to."  
  
"Believe me," Simon said fervently. "I am."  
  


* * *

  
To Jim's surprise, it was still daylight when they left the station. So much had happened it didn't seem possible to have all occurred in one day. Blair had been unnaturally quiet the whole afternoon, working diligently on the reports and making sure that Dennis Gorman had the proper representation from the Public Defender's office, as well as a solitary bunk in lock-up and a counselor. Jim watched Blair out of the corner of his eye all afternoon, and kept his senses pinned on Blair as well, but Blair seemed as normal as he could be -- just quieter.  
  
They were out of the building just before six. Without comment, Jim drove them back to Thai Palace to recreate their aborted Friday evening dinner. They returned to the loft, set plates and dinner out on the table, and sat to eat -- all in pretty much complete silence, aside from an occasional question or two.  
  
Finally, Blair put his fork down on his plate and looked up across the table to meet Jim's eyes. "I'm okay, Jim," he said softly. "You can stop monitoring me now."  
  
Jim smiled wryly. "Not going to happen, Chief," he replied. "But I can try to stop worrying so much if it'll help."  
  
"Like that could happen either," Blair snorted in affectionate mirth. "Honest... For right now, everything's okay. It won't be for long, and in fact, we need to make some calls and some plans for tomorrow, but right now..." he shrugged.  
  
"What kind of plans?" Jim asked warily.  
  
"The kind of plans you really hate," Blair replied, smiling apologetically. "We're going to need to face down that bastard, and the only place to do it properly is on the spirit plane."  
  
"Wait wait," Jim said, frowning. "I thought you already faced him down. And why would we _want_ to confront him more? And -- now that I think of it -- how did you know he was abusing his son?"  
  
"I guessed," Blair said, grinning. "It made sense, and as it turns out, I was right. As for the rest of it, that little confrontation today was in one of my places of power," he explained, pushing his nearly-empty plate aside and resting his elbows on the table. He propped his head in his hands and looked at Jim seriously. "I wasn't kidding when I told him he wouldn't have a chance there. He knew it too, which is why he backed down -- _this_ time.  
  
"But my thought is that he's mad -- in more ways than one -- and he's going to want to exact revenge. Did you hear him? He called his son -- his own son! -- his property. The guy is nuts. And... he's named me enemy, Jim, basically called me out. He knows that I can't let him go after his son, and I won't let him go after you or Violet." Blair shrugged again. "So that means I meet him, answer his challenge. So we do... we meet him some place where he feels safer, and then nail his hide to the wall."  
  
"'Some place where he feels safer,'" Jim repeated. "Does that also mean some place where he _is_ safer?"  
  
"I've got several places of power, Jim," Blair said. "Here, the PD, Grandmother's house -- the Center, even, although I can't really claim that, it's too public. He won't attack me, won't meet me in those places, because he perceives it as an unfair advantage to me. I won't meet him at one of his places, so that leaves neutral ground, which, by its definition, means we'll both be vulnerable." Blair's face got hard. "But I won't let that bastard win. If I can't nail him on the material plane for something he caused -- and you can bet your soul that everything Dennis did is just a product of his twisted mindset -- then I'll nail him on the spirit plane. One way or the other. He called me out. He's going to get more than he bargained for."  
  
Jim frowned at Blair's matter-of-fact voice and attitude, and shivered slightly. Blair must have noticed it, because he instantly cocked his head and said, softly, "What's wrong?"  
  
"I -- " Jim looked away and swallowed. How could he explain his discomfort with the way Blair was acting, with what had happened over the last few days? When Blair had seemed so bloodthirsty -- so willing to send Dennis Gorman down the river, so unlike Blair -- it had almost felt like the bottom dropped out of Jim's world. That wasn't Blair -- that wasn't the gentle soul Jim knew and loved. But who was responsible for changing him... was it Blair's choice and Blair's doing or was it something Jim had impressed upon him, by making him a cop and bringing him into Jim's world?  
  
"Hey," Blair said, reaching across the table to take Jim's hands. "It's all right, really. It's still me in here." Jim looked down at their hands, wrapped together tightly. "It's been weird, I know, and -- I'm still trying to come to grips with what happened last night." It was Blair's turn to swallow and look away, and Jim squeezed his hands. This, he could handle. Giving comfort, giving reassurance -- especially to Blair -- that was easy.  
  
But Jim, at heart, had always been a leader, not a follower. Blair was asking him to follow now, and that was difficult. Of course, it _was_ true that Blair had often, if not always, lead them -- but that was always from the rear, where Jim could protect him. Now, Blair was stepping up and taking his rightful place, and that made Jim uneasy. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "I just -- it -- you don't -- " Jim gave up in disgust, unable to articulate his nebulous fears.  
  
Blair stood and walked around the table, never letting go of Jim's hands. Jim tugged him to stand between his knees and buried his face in Blair's belly, wrapping his arms around Blair's hips and held on tight -- grateful for his right to do so now. He felt Blair's fingers card through his short hair reassuringly. "I swear, Jim," he finally murmured, "it's me. It's always been me, and it always will be. It's just that -- well, as you've grown and changed over the past few years, I have too. But I'll always be me. I'll always love you."  
  
Jim pulled far enough away to look into Blair's face and see the love and compassion there. "It's hard for me," he forced out, and the look on Blair's face told him that he understood. Beautiful Blair -- he would always understand.  
  
"I know," he said, and pulled Jim's face back into his stomach. "Smell me, Jim. I haven't changed. Hear me, taste me -- I'm still the same me." After a moment, his caresses turned teasing, and Blair's scent changed subtly. "And if you come upstairs with me, I'll prove it," he added, his tone lighter, mischievous.  
  
"Do I get to taste you all over?" Jim asked, only half-serious.  
  
"Only if I can do the same to you," Blair replied. They held the embrace for a long minute more, then slowly broke apart.  
  
"You'd better get a shower first, then," Jim said, rising. "Because right now, you smell as much like Morrie as you do like Blair."  
  
"Oh, that damn ferret," Blair complained. "I've still got fur down my neck! If you handle the dishes, I'll take a quick shower and meet you upstairs."  
  
"Okay," Jim said, smiling agreeably. The nagging fears were still there, as was the sorrow, but they were muted now. Blair would make everything all right again. He always would.  
  
Jim hurried through the dishes and other straightening up chores and was upstairs undressing by the time Blair emerged from the bathroom, clean and dry. Jim knew, on some deep, primitive level, that they needed this time to reconnect. Grandmother's voice came to him, as clearly as if she stood behind him -- they had a symbiotic relationship, and they were to always take the time to touch, to renew their bond. And when Blair appeared at the top of the stairs, limned in the dim light of their bedroom, Jim realized how much he needed to feel his love in his arms again.  
  
Not hesitating, he reached out and drew Blair to him, letting the towel that was around his hips drop to the floor without comment. Blair seemed to understand -- wise Blair, he would always understand! -- what Jim needed, and simply stood there while Jim buried his face in the warm, damp skin of his neck and inhaled. Jim had gotten down to his boxers by the time Blair made it to the top of the stairs, and was grateful for the feeling of skin-on-skin. But it was scent that needed to be assuaged now, scent more than anything -- the sense that was most closely linked to his brain.  
  
Wrapping his arms around Blair's middle, Jim lifted him and moved them both to the bed, lying down and crawling on top of Blair, who remained limp and unresisting. Jim could tell Blair was aware of and submitting to the primitive need burning within the Sentinel part of Jim, the desire to prove that nothing had changed between them -- the desire to re-connect -- the desire to re-claim.  
  
Jim closed his eyes and let his senses take over. Blair was here -- Blair would protect him, see that he didn't zone -- and in this sacred space, one of Blair's places of power, he could give in do as his body demanded. Moving from Blair's neck to his face, Jim breathed deep through his nose and out through his mouth, re-imprinting Blair's scent on himself. While his mouth was open, he let his tongue trail across a smooth cheek -- Blair must have shaved after his shower -- and tasted Blair and soap and Blair.  
  
Rising to his hands and knees, Jim adjusted the body lying quietly beneath him until Blair was situated on the middle of the bed. Then Jim caged him in with arms and legs, and once more lowered his face, this time to Blair's chest, just below his neck. He breathed deeply again, gently rubbing his face against the crinkly fur that graced Blair's chest. Following the scent markers, Jim rooted blindly to one side -- stopping briefly to taste one small, hairless, round patch -- and ended up with his nose deep in Blair's armpit, still scenting and tasting. Such a delicious flavor; such a fabulous texture.  
  
Moving lower, Jim let his nose lead him back to the broad, hairy chest then down over an abdomen that wasn't quite as hard and defined as his own, but was just as flat. The hair here was more concentrated, darker, arrowing downwards to a prize Jim could smell approaching. He stopped briefly in the indentation of Blair's navel, giving it a kiss before moving on.  
  
Yes, here was the mother-lode -- pure, concentrated Blair with a whiff of other, less natural odors that were easily ignored. Bypassing the furiously rigid shaft which twitched gently in time with Blair's heartbeat, Jim buried his nose in the crease between body and leg. Obligingly, Blair spread his legs and let Jim in, let Jim run his nose over the trembling muscles of upper thigh and groin, and Jim hummed in appreciation and approval. Here, the hair was soft and downy, increasingly thick as Jim followed it down the well-muscled leg to a bent knee.  
  
But the scent markers were decreasing here, the lower Jim went, even after he transferred his face to the other leg. So he followed the trail back up, hunting for the place that was the most _Blair_ , and he found it again, back in that dark crevasse that divided Blair's body. Jim let his nose root around at the base of Blair's shaft, let his tongue dart out to confirm taste, to let taste reinforce smell. The fragile texture of Blair's testicles delighted Jim, and he laved the lightly-furred skin with his tongue before moving down.  
  
Ah, yes, here it was, dark and musky, rich with pheromones. Jim used his hands and shoulders to gently move away limbs that were spasming somehow, trembling for some reason, and lowered his face again to better breathe in that wonderful flavor, to taste that beautiful aroma. Yes, here it was, and Jim drew it deeply into himself once again. His Sentinel lizard brain performed its own comparison study -- lining up the 'before' with the 'after' and concluding that yes, this was Blair, this was love, there was no change -- other than a slightly medicinal, chemical aftertaste that was oddly familiar in its own right...  
  
Hearing abruptly came back online, to register gasping and moaning cries somewhere far above him. Jim slowly raised his head, letting his eyes open as he did so, gradually emerging from his fugue state. Blair's lovely olive-toned skin was his first sight -- stretched taut and red over his shaft and glistening with pre-come and saliva. Gradually, he noticed that Blair's hands were locked in a death-grip on the bedspread and his muscles were nearly as rigid as his erection, and trembling. The pearlescent fluid dripping from Blair's penis and pooling on his stomach drew Jim down again, and he licked at it, reveling in the taste even as Blair cried out.  
  
Hands were tugging at his shoulders, and whimpering sounded in his ears. Reluctantly, Jim let himself be urged up again, retracing his slow, delicious journey until he reached Blair's mouth, where he swallowed the pleading cries. Warm hands scrabbled at his boxer shorts, and he pushed the offending cotton out of the way, never letting his lips move from the heavenly cavern of Blair's mouth. He closed his eyes again, the better to smell the heat and taste the passion -- his muscles were turning to mush and were refusing to obey his increasingly incoherent demands but his hands were able to lock themselves in the crinkly-soft hair on Blair's head, carding and gripping as he once again explored every inch of Blair's mouth.  
  
So it couldn't have been his hands -- slick with something warm and slippery -- coating his own rigid shaft. But Jim didn't care, as long as he could taste Blair, smell Blair, feel Blair's wonderful heat and tightness, see beautiful Blair's face contort with exquisitely passionate pleasure as Jim's hips thrust of their own accord driving him deep, wonderfully deep and hard into tight wonderful heat wonderful Blair beautiful wonderful Blair -- ah!  
  
Sobbing -- the smell and taste of tears -- Jim dragged himself back from a pleasant gray nowhere to hear Blair smell Blair crying. Blair never cried.  
  
With effort, Jim managed to lift his head from its comfortable resting place of Blair's shoulder, managed to get his sight on-line and his hands to reach -- tremblingly -- to the tracks of tears as they fell like rain from Blair's eyes. "Blair..." he murmured, his heart contorting. Had he hurt...?  
  
"God... God... Jim..." Blair sobbed, reaching for him, holding him, squeezing him tightly. "Oh, God... I love you... so damn much... so goddamned much..."  
  
Some kernel of understanding within Jim realized what was happening, instructed and reassured him. He wiped the tears from Blair's face tenderly, then wiped his own tears away as well before settling himself back down, burying his face once again in beautiful, wonderful Blair.  
  


* * *

  
Jim vaguely remembered waking at one point, hearing voices murmuring. Tagging them as Blair speaking with Violet on the phone, he merely shrugged mentally and went back to sleep, nestled against the warm body of his lover. When he next stirred, sunlight was pouring in through the skylight above the bed. The clock radio said eight-thirty, his stomach concurred, and, after taking a quick inventory, his body came back reporting everything refreshed, relaxed and raring to go.  
  
He rolled over and stretched hugely, a grin unaccountably splitting his face. He felt _good_ \-- his loss of the days before was still there, but he knew now that somehow, everything would be fine and things would work out. Deciding to take the optimism at face value, he jumped out of bed. Movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn, and he was unsurprised to see the jaguar and the wolf curled up together, asleep, in a corner of the room. Where normally that would have freaked him out, this morning, he merely smiled gently, pleased with their presence.  
  
Blair was a snoring lump under the covers -- which, come to think of it, Jim couldn't even remember climbing under the night before. Rather than wake his lover, Jim merely tucked him in more firmly, grabbed his robe, and went downstairs for a shower.  
  
Three quarters of an hour later, he came back up the stairs carefully bearing a tray laden with Blair's favorite breakfast -- coffee, orange juice, cinnamon-raisin oatmeal, multi-grain toast with strawberry preserves, and wedges of musk-melon. For himself, he had added papaya juice, extra toast, brown sugar-cinnamon oatmeal and bananas.  
  
Placing the tray carefully on the floor next to the bed, he shucked his robe and climbed back under the covers with Blair, spooning up behind the lump and kissing his neck. Half awake, Blair made shooing motions with one hand, but Jim only grinned, caught it, and kissed the fingers.  
  
"Go 'way," Blair mumbled, then froze. Jim heard him sniffing, then heard a long inhale followed by an even longer sigh. Blair rolled over and opened one bleary eye. "Did you...?"  
  
"Uh-huh," Jim replied, nuzzling Blair's neck, being careful of the killer stubble.  
  
The eye closed and the lips turned up. "James Ellison, you are too much."  
  
"I am?" Jim asked, pulling out of the bed and getting the tray.  
  
With groaning effort, Blair hauled himself more-or-less upright, letting the blankets and sheets fall away. He eyed the tray greedily. "You are," he said, reaching for the coffee. After a big slurp, he sighed again and smiled. "You love me to within an inch of my life and then bring me breakfast in bed. I don't know what wonderful karma I amassed in a previous life to deserve you, but I bless the gods daily for it."  
  
"Gee, isn't that odd," Jim replied placidly, slathering strawberry preserves on some toast. "That's just what I say every day about you." He took a big bite then held out the toast for Blair, who laughed, shook his head and stole the rest of the piece.  
  
They ate fairly quickly and reasonably neatly, stealing each other's food and making lewd suggestions about the bananas. After the last of the juice had disappeared, Jim watched Blair lift the tray up and carefully deposit it on the floor. Then he crawled over the bed to Jim, pulling Jim's arms around himself like a blanket. "I don't believe you have given me a good morning kiss yet, Mr. Ellison," he said, draping his own arms around Jim's neck.  
  
"That's entirely possible," Jim allowed, smiling down into Blair's face. "But I thought the breakfast in bed would make up for it."  
  
"No," Blair said seriously, "nothing makes up for no morning kiss." He pressed his lips gently against Jim's in a sweet greeting, sighing as Jim returned the kiss with equal love. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
"So, to what do I owe this generosity?" Blair asked, leaning so that Jim would tip over and fall with him to the bed.  
  
"I figured you're going to need your strength today," Jim shrugged, allowing Blair to pull him down. They needed to change the sheets today anyway.  
  
Blair suddenly lost his teasing demeanor and took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you remembered."  
  
"I remember," Jim replied, shifting so that he cradled Blair in his arms and could tangle their legs together. "I don't _like_ it, but I remember."  
  
"I talked to Violet last night, while you were asleep," Blair said. "We need to meet her at the Center at one."  
  
"Already?" Jim asked, dismayed. He knew that Blair had wanted to do this soon, but so soon...  
  
"It has to be today, Jim," Blair told him quietly. "The man is crazy, Jim, and there's nothing we can do to him on this plane. It'll have to be on the spirit plane, and we can't afford to let him strike first. And, honestly, we're much better off doing it during the day."  
  
Jim closed his eyes and rested his head on Blair's for a moment. After a while, he sighed and asked, "Why the Center?"  
  
Blair shrugged. "Neutral enough ground, we figure. We're all familiar with it, no one will be there, and it will be easy enough to get into." He pulled away and looked into Jim's face. "Are you okay with this?"  
  
"No," Jim replied wryly. "But that won't stop you, I know. I'll deal."  
  
"I'm going to need your help, you know," Blair persisted.  
  
"How can I help you?" Jim asked, completely bewildered. "I don't even understand this stuff, Chief."  
  
"You're my protector," Blair said, smiling at him. "You're _a_ protector. It's what you are. All you have to do is be true to yourself -- I'd never dream of asking you for anything else."  
  
Unaccountably touched, Jim nuzzled his nose into Blair's curls. "I'll do whatever you want me to do, Sandburg," he said gruffly, trying to hide his emotion.  
  
"I know, Jim, I know," Blair replied, hugging him tightly.  
  


* * *

  
The Center hadn't been leveled in the fire, but the damage was such that it would take some time to get it completely open and functional again. Many of the offices and quite a few of the books in Grandmother's office were destroyed, and there was smoke and water damage throughout. There might have been even worse damage if Blair hadn't shown up when he had, or if Dennis hadn't disabled the sprinkler system before beginning his ceremony in the storage room.  
  
They parked in the empty lot next to Violet's car just before one in the afternoon. The day, though starting out fair and sunny, had turned blustery, and the sun had retreated behind dark clouds. Picking their way over the fire's detritus, they entered through the unlocked front doors, calling out to Violet.  
  
Her voice led them to the opposite end of the building from the fire, into the multi-purpose room where the dance had been just a week before. She had cleared a large space in the middle of the floor and was in the process of laying out a complicated pattern on it, using a fine pale powder. They watched her for a few moments, then Blair opened the large duffle he had brought with him, pulling out several items.  
  
He had a dozen of his fat, white meditation candles, with matches; his portable boom-box, which Jim knew was full of fresh batteries (from Jim's stash); some kind of native drum; a half dozen small, chilled bottles of Gatorade -- "For afterwards," he said, grinning-- and several small tins and bottles of herbs that Jim really didn't want to check out very thoroughly. After examining Violet's pattern carefully for a few minutes, Blair carefully walked around it, placing candles at intervals and lighting them.  
  
"Shall I make it a two or three focus, Blair?" Violet asked quietly, not looking up from what she was doing.  
  
"Three," he replied. "Jim, would you put the boom-box over in that corner?" he asked, indicating with a quick wave of his hand. "We're going to need to get started soon, kid, you about done?"  
  
"Almost," she replied, absently.  
  
Jim put the portable stereo down and watched the two others in the room move about seemingly at random. He had no idea what they were doing, but a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that it wouldn't be long before he'd be caught up in the middle of it.  
  
At last, Violet appeared to be finished with her esoteric pattern. The room was dark except for the flickering lights of the candles, and Blair started up the stereo, which contained a CD Blair had burned that morning -- from a tape of tribal drumming. He set the CD on repeat, put the volume on low, then picked up the drum he had brought with him and moved toward the pattern. "Jim," he called. "Come over here. I need to show you where to sit. Be careful you don't mess up any of the lines."  
  
The powder looked and smelled like corn flour, maybe mixed with sand or some other neutral substance. There were three circles placed within the complicated pattern Violet had woven on the floor, and Blair pointed Jim to one of them, indicating he should sit inside the lines. Blair took a nearby circle, and Violet took the third, after starting a fire in a small ceramic bowl. She placed the flaming bowl before her, and Blair drew out small handfuls of several different types of herbs, casting them on the flames. Almost instantly the room filled with fragrant smoke, and Jim coughed.  
  
"Dial down smell, Jim," Blair said quickly, glancing at Jim. "Not all the way, but enough so that this won't bother you. And while you're at it, put hearing down too, to around four or so. You should be able to hear us, but it shouldn't be overwhelming."  
  
Blair and Violet settled within their circles, Violet put the ceramic bowl in another, smaller circle, mid-way between her and Blair, and Blair cast more herbs onto the fire. Jim could now see that there was oil in the bottom of the bowl, along with some kind wooden sticks, both of which were burning briskly. Blair began beating his drum gently, in a simple, repetitive fashion mimicking a heartbeat. The sound meshed with the quiet music coming from the boombox and Jim almost felt his heartbeat align with it.  
  
"Are we ready?" He looked from Jim to Violet. Violet already had her eyes closed and her palms open on her knees. Jim gave Blair a long, pointed look before nodding, dry-mouthed. "Jim, you'll need to begin your breathing for meditation. Remember how I talked you down into it the last time we did this? Just go over that in your mind until you reach the spirit realm."  
  
"How--" Jim cleared his throat. "How is this going to fight Gorman?" he asked hoarsely.  
  
"Gorman knows what we're doing. He's already doing it himself," Blair replied confidently. "Do your breathing, Jim. Everything will be fine. Oh, and look after Violet too, would you?"  
  
Jim nodded shortly, giving Violet a glance -- she showed no sign she had heard Blair. Continuing his soft drumming, Blair closed his eyes and began breathing deeply. Jim shrugged, tried to dismiss his trepidation, and did the same.  
  
The rhythmic pounding began to fill his mind as he struggled to relax, fought to drain his mind of anything and everything that 'tied him to the material plane' -- as Blair put it. Long moments passed as Jim's mind grew ever more quiet, then a sudden, soft chirring in his ear nearly made him jump. Sharp teeth nibbling on his earlobe relaxed him again -- how the hell had Morrie gotten in here? Jim opened his eyes to look at the ferret, who was sitting high on his shoulder -- and realized he wasn't in Kansas any more.  
  
He stood outdoors, about mid-way down a gently sloping hill covered with short turf. There was a stream running at the bottom that was moving arrow-straight -- far to straight to be natural. On the other side of the stream, the ground moved gently upwards again, but it was densely covered with rainforest instead of grass.  
  
"We stand at the edge," said a voice behind Jim's left ear -- Blair.  
  
"We stand at the edge and call," said a voice behind Jim's right ear -- Violet.  
  
"We stand at the edge and call for our spirit guides," said Blair, and both he and Violet emerged into Jim's range of sight, walking slowly towards the stream. With a start, Jim realized that Violet was dressed in a short deerskin dress, covered with intricate beadwork, and Blair wore the traditional dress of a Chopec shaman -- right down to the red face paint. Glancing down at himself, Jim discovered he was back in his camouflage gear and was painted as a Chopec warrior. Morrie, however, still riding on Jim's shoulder and gripping the straps of his vest, looked the same as always.  
  
Before Blair or Violet could reach the edge of the stream, a rustling in the jungle beyond it heralded the approach of something. From the trees crashed the wolf, joyously leaping into the stream, spraying silver droplets of water everywhere. The black jaguar followed at a more decorous pace, giving the wolf a glance that plainly said what it thought about playing in water. Once the wolf had reached the other side of the stream, the jaguar followed, lifting its feet daintily and shaking them in distaste as they got wet. A movement of grass at Violet's feet made her look down to see a small gray field mouse climbing her leg -- she reached down with one hand to help it reach her shoulder, where it perched as Morrie was doing on Jim.  
  
Blair knelt to greet his wolf, who happily bathed Blair's face and neck with his long tongue. The jaguar sat primly just out of range until the wolf gave it a disgusted glance, whereupon it rose with great dignity, walked to Jim, rubbed its soft face against his leg affectionately, then moved to stand with Blair next to the wolf. Blair buried his hands in the jaguar's neck and rubbed its ears, and Jim heard a sound suspiciously like a subdued purr.  
  
Once a cat, always a cat, Jim thought to himself, and the wolf laughed at him over one shoulder.  
  
Blair stood again, the two spirit guides to either side of him, and Violet moved in closer. All of them faced the stream and the dark jungle beyond it, and Jim realized he could still hear the drumming which was anchoring them to the material plane. But as he realized that, he began to hear a different drumming, one that was out of synch with theirs. Discordant, trying to force theirs in rhythm with it, it waxed and waned in volume, putting Jim's teeth on edge.  
  
A breeze sprang up out of nowhere, swirling around them, playing with Violet's long, loose hair. A sudden hard gust made her stagger, and Blair lifted one hand, palm-down, above his head. The breeze seemed to concentrate on his hand -- Jim could almost see it battering at him -- but as Blair slowly closed his hand into a fist, the breeze died down to nothing and vanished.  
  
"Is that the best you can do, Gorman?" Blair suddenly yelled, making Jim start. The discordant drumming abruptly gained in volume and fury at his words, then died back down again.  
  
Suddenly, a huge black cloud issued from the jungle -- an enormous swarm of insects, buzzing furiously, spearing directly at them. Both Blair and Violet held up their hands at this attack, and the swarm divided as if by a knife, passing them on either side as if they were protected by an invisible force field. The buzzing died down to nothing as the swarm dissipated.  
  
Before any of them could react, the light abruptly died and an icy cold descended. Jim could feel the ground beneath him begin to tremble, and he called out a warning, "Chief -- incoming!"  
  
A dim glow began to suffuse their small circle, and after a moment, Jim realized it was centered on the stone that Blair wore around his neck. It gave enough light to see that Blair had lifted his arms straight out and thrown his head back. He began a slow, stomping dance, moving only a few feet in any direction, while Violet was copying his movements in reverse. The animals -- except for Morrie, who stayed on Jim's shoulder -- began circling the humans, moving counter-clockwise and evenly spaced in their odd orbit.  
  
The cold lessened by degrees, and as it did, the light returned. The ground ceased shaking and came back into being as grass and dirt. After only a few moments, everything was as it had been.  
  
Violet was panting slightly, and had sweat pouring off her forehead. "You okay?" Blair asked her softly, and she nodded, smiling grimly. "I don't like this, it's too easy," Blair continued, muttering. "He's throwing kid stuff at us and I felt him, he could do more -- a lot more."  
  
Violet looked as confused as Jim felt. "What do you mean, Blair?" she asked, once again lifting her own spirit guide to her shoulder.  
  
"He's up to something," Blair said, turning in a full circle. He stopped and stared hard at Jim, then at Morrie. Jim heard the other drumming trying again to overwhelm their own, and felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. "Morrie," Blair said suddenly, "bite Jim."  
  
Jim stared at Blair while Morrie chirred interrogatively. "Now, Morrie, bite his ear. Now!"  
  
"OW!" Jim yelled as the ferret carried out her instructions. He opened eyes he hadn't known were closed and turned to yell at both Morrie and Blair -- but suddenly realized he was back in the multi-purpose room, out of the spirit plane, and that John Blackbear Gorman was approaching Blair from behind and was carrying a baseball bat ready to strike.  
  
Jim's exclamation made Gorman freeze for a moment, and that's all Jim needed. He leapt to his feet and drew his gun. "Don't move, Gorman!" Jim yelled, bringing his weapon to bear. But as he started to walk out of his circle, Morrie bit him again, though less hard. "Ow! Goddammit, would you quit that, you lousy rodent?" Jim demanded, but Morrie merely chirred angrily at him.  
  
"Don't leave the circle, Jim," Blair said softly, and Jim looked down to see Blair's eyes open. With a quick motion that hardly paused his drumming, he cast more herbs onto the fire that was still smoldering in Violet's bowl. The room suddenly filled with far more smoke than the small handful of plant-matter should have caused, and Gorman fell away from Violet's pattern with a howl.  
  
"Stand still," Blair murmured to Jim. "Whatever happens, listen only to me, okay?" Jim frowned but nodded, utterly confused. He glanced at Violet, but her eyes were still closed and her body was still relaxed.  
  
Gorman's pained howl broke off suddenly into cursing, then into a sort of strange chanting. There was a low, pained moan which came from somewhere in the room, but Jim couldn't quite pinpoint it. The smoke began to clear and the light to increase -- and with twin snarls, both the jaguar and the wolf were in the room, facing down a huge black bear. Gorman stood behind the creature and to one side, and he was still chanting furiously.  
  
"Now, that's cheating, _noeqkikha sheli_ ," Blair said conversationally. "You know the rules, yet you continue to flaunt them. Why is that, I wonder?"  
  
" _Sh'emein_ ," Gorman snarled. "I name you enemy and I will destroy you. You don't have the right to call yourself a shaman."  
  
"Oh, yes I do," Blair replied, his voice hard. "I have far more right than you, apparently. I don't have to coerce my spirit guide to protect me." Both the wolf and the jaguar were snapping and snarling at the bear, which was reluctantly weaving before them, seeking a way past them but not engaging them.  
  
With a bellow of pure rage, Gorman began chanting again, louder and louder. Violet gasped and clapped her hands over her ears, suddenly bending over, keening in pain. Jim struggled to keep from going to her, but knew that Blair had a reason for keeping him trapped within his circle -- though he didn't know what that reason was. He kept his hearing turned down far enough so that every sound was a dim buzz -- but kept one part of himself open to hear Blair.  
  
"Gorman!" Blair shouted over the man's chanting, rising to his feet. "Calling upon evil spirits won't help you here; your own spirit guide won't let them in! Don't be an idiot!"  
  
As if to prove his words, Gorman's bear suddenly stiffened and moaned. With a start, Jim realized that was the same pained sound he had heard earlier; and it pierced his heart with its agony. Gorman choked in mid-chant and fell to his knees, snarling and slavering. He began yelling at the bear, which only caused it more pain, to judge how it was acting. The jaguar and the wolf fell back, ready to defend, but not willing to attack.  
  
"Jim, Jim," Blair was saying, and Jim focused on his lover. "I need you to do something for me, Jim," Blair murmured urgently. "Dial up sight, man, dial it _way_ up, past ten even, and look at our connections to our spirit guides -- do you see it? There should be a silver cord binding us to our spirit guides -- Violet to her mouse, Gorman to his bear -- do you see it?"  
  
Shooting an incredulous look at Blair, Jim shook his head. Morrie chirred in his ear, licking instead of biting this time, and with a grimace and another shake of his head, Jim dialed up sight nearly as far as it would go, squinting in the suddenly intense candlelight. "I'll be damned," he muttered as he focused on the spirit animals.  
  
"Do you see it, Jim? Look at your own heart and follow the cord to the jaguar. Do you see it?" Blair asked him, still speaking softly over Gorman's bellows.  
  
"Yeah, I do," Jim said wondrously, blinking. And he did -- there was a thick silver cord between him and the jaguar, between the wolf and Blair -- and tangled between all four of them. It was thickest between Jim and Blair though, and he decided that made sense. Jim could also see the cords between the other animals and their shaman.  
  
"Jim, you need to leave the circle now, it'll be okay, I can protect you for now, but you need to come here and get my Swiss army knife," Blair said. "It's in my right front pocket. Come on, Jim, just be careful not to mess up any of the lines."  
  
Cautiously, keeping his sight dialed up and stepping as carefully as he could through the maze, Jim reached Blair. He holstered his gun and dug into Blair's pocket for the knife, finding it easily. "Good, that's good," Blair murmured. He was still drumming, softly. "This is the hard part now... You need to go to Gorman's bear and cut the cord between them. Use the smallest blade."  
  
"Chief," Jim protested. How could he cut something that didn't really exist?  
  
"Trust me, Jim," Blair said, looking seriously into his eyes. "Just do it, man. You can do it."  
  
Frowning with skepticism, Jim carefully left the protection of Violet's pattern and moved quickly toward the animals. The jaguar wouldn't let him approach the bear alone, but stayed close to his side, in between the two of them. Gorman was about ten feet away, and appeared to have gone completely around the bend -- he was screaming at both Blair and the bear, trying to chant and not succeeding.  
  
Time seemed to pause as Jim reached the great black bear. He could see the silver cord which bound it to Gorman -- but instead of the pure color that tied him to his jaguar or Blair to his wolf, this cord looked tarnished and frayed. The bear met his eyes but didn't try to stop his approach -- and Jim was staggered at the amount of pain displayed in those dark eyes. This was not a happy match, not by any stretch of the imagination.  
  
Gorman finally woke up and noticed Jim, for he screamed, "NO!" and tried to rush him, hefting his bat once again. Before either the wolf or the jaguar could react, however, a huge black bird suddenly flew down from the rafters and dove into Gorman's face, screeching. While he struggled to break free of it, Jim reached the cord and brought the Swiss army knife's smallest blade down, neatly severing it.  
  
The cord rebounded with a crack and Jim staggered back. It felt as though he had cut a high-tension power line, not an insubstantial and half-imaginary cord. Both the wolf and the jaguar were with him, herding him back away from the bear and Gorman, both of whom were screaming in agony.  
  
The bird flew to Jim and landed on his shoulder opposite Morrie, and Jim sank to his knees, reeling in shock. The bear rose to its hind legs and bellowed to the ceiling of the room, then, with one swipe of its paw, smacked Gorman across the floor. It sank slowly back down again and gave Blair and Jim a look of pure gratitude before turning and shambling away, gradually fading until it disappeared completely.  
  
"Jim?" Jim reached out and wrapped one arm around the wolf, who nuzzled him, and the other around the jaguar, who head-butted him. "Jim? _Jim_?" Blair's voice was insistent, and he slowly forced his head up and his eyes open -- to find he was lying on the floor of the room, no spirit guides present, and Blair hunched over him, his eyes concerned.  
  
"Wha -- what happened?" Jim asked, struggling to sit up. Blair helped him on one side and Violet on the other. "Where's the animals? Where's Gorman?"  
  
"It's over now, Jim, and Gorman -- he's not a threat any more," Blair said wearily.  
  
Jim pulled both Violet and Blair to him, and they sat still in the dark room while the candles guttered and Morrie chewed on Violet's braid.  
  


* * *

  
EPILOGUE  
  
"So, how did you know I'd be able to cut the cord?" Jim asked, adjusting Blair's tie. They stood in the kitchen in Grandmother's -- now Violet's -- house. "And if you tell me you guessed, I'm going to smack you," he added, smiling.  
  
"Then I won't tell you," Blair said, grinning back. "I'm sure my tie looks fine, Jim. No, Morrie, you can't climb me right now."  
  
"It does," Jim replied, giving Blair a heated glance. "It does indeed." It was the Wednesday after their awful weekend, and the house and yard were filled with friends and relatives of Mrs. Violet Williams, for her memorial service. Morrie was taking her role as house-ferret very seriously, now that she had been definitely assigned. She had spent some time wanting to be in both residences -- the house and the loft -- but Blair had persuaded her to stay with Violet. "Seriously, Chief, how did you know?"  
  
Blair sighed. "There's a word in Salishan that means walks between two worlds, or to be between two things, Jim," he said. "It's something like _tchtch'eset_. You are a warrior, a _k'wam'wem_ who lives between two worlds -- the material plane and the spirit plane -- because of your Sentinel abilities." Blair wrapped his arms around Jim's waist and leaned his head on Jim's shoulder. "You can see things that no one else can, feel things no one else can. I knew that you'd be able to do it... not that I really wanted you to."  
  
"Why not?" Jim asked, concerned over the sadness he heard in Blair's voice.  
  
"Because I knew what would happen to him if you did," Blair murmured. "And I was right."  
  
"Chief, you didn't see what I saw," Jim said, squeezing Blair in a hug. "That bear... he was in pain. It was better for him... and I can't feel sorry for Gorman. At all." After a moment, he added, "I can feel sorry for Dennis, I guess, and maybe for the staff at Conover, if Gorman ever wakes up. But not for him."  
  
Blair seemed about to respond when a soft voice interrupted them. "Guys?" Violet was approaching, bearing a small box. "We're ready." She looked beautiful, Jim thought -- dressed simply in a black and gray pantsuit with her hair in one braid down her back.  
  
The terms of Grandmother's will were quite simple -- Violet was her primary heir. She received the house, which was paid for, and an enormous trust fund that staggered just about everyone who knew Grandmother. Violet would have no problem paying tuition at Rainier -- which had already accepted her -- and would never need a place to stay.  
  
The one problem was Daryl, who had basically moved in with her. Daryl had also decided to go to Rainier, which pleased Simon and Joan, but neither set of parents were wild about the two young people living together. Jim and Blair were the only ones privy to the real story -- Daryl had Grandmother's old room, and neither he nor Violet were sure they would ever become intimate -- much less get married. There was a special bond between the two of them, and not even Blair understood it, or knew where it was going.  
  
The sun was setting, and it was time for the other part of Grandmother's last wishes. Violet, still holding the small box, stood at the edge of Grandmother's garden and faced the small crowd. "By tradition," she said, "Grandmother would have preferred an air burial, but that's not exactly allowed in modern times. So instead, she asked that she be cremated and her essence scattered where she loved the most -- here, in her garden. As her student, this I do for her -- my last task for my beloved teacher."  
  
Violet stopped and had to clear her throat before continuing. "Blair, would you come up and help me? You were her student too, and she felt as close to you as she did to me."  
  
"You sure, _lhseq tse lhq'eil'tch'_?" he asked, using the name he had been calling her by since the battle. Jim smiled as Violet smiled and nodded. Blair had told him the nickname meant or referred to the first crescent moon -- a beautiful thing that would grow even more beautiful with age. It fit Violet, in more than one way.  
  
Blair held the box as Violet reached in and lifted a double handful of ashes. "In life, your garden was always beautiful -- I should know as you made me do a lot of it --" the crowd chuckled, knowing the truth of that statement. "In death, you will still make it beautiful. I love you and I miss you, Grandmother Raven." She tossed the ashes in a wide arc, watching as they settled to the ground around the flowers.  
  
There was only a little bit left at the bottom of the box, and Blair addressed it seriously. "I miss you, old woman," he said softly. "Thank you for helping Jim." Moving his arm in a wide, graceful sweep, he flung the remaining ashes out over the garden, then slowly closed the box and gave it back to Violet.  
  
"There's food and drink inside," Daryl said after a few moment's silence. He lead the way back into the house for all except Blair and Jim, who stood together at the edge of the garden in the gathering gloom.  
  
"God, I miss her, Jim," Blair murmured, and Jim wrapped his arm around Blair, squeezing tightly. "Even though I know she's not that far away."  
  
"Yeah," Jim said, at a loss for more words. A movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn, and Blair caught his movement, tracking along his line-of-sight until he, too, noticed the large black bird sitting in one of the pin oaks.  
  
"Is that a raven?" he asked, breathless.  
  
After a moment, Jim turned him to the house. "Naw," he said, swallowing. "Just a crow."

end

**Author's Note:**

> Features original character death.


End file.
